VERSATILITIES 


BY 


/  / 

R.   H.   NEWELL. 

("ORPHEUS  C.  KERR.") 


BOSTON: 
LEE   AND    SHEPARD,  PUBLISHERS. 

NEW    YORK: 

LEE,  SHEPARD,  AND  DILLINGHAM. 
1871. 


I 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871, 

BY    R.    H.    N  EWELL, 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS:  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


EVERAL  pieces  of  verse  included  in  the  graver  half  of  the 
present  collection  were  published  some  seven  or  eight  years 
ago  in  a  little  volume,  which,  for  private  reasons,  was  almost 
immediately  withdrawn  from  print.  Of  them,  and  of  the  greater 
number  of  "  Poems  "  forming  the  first  division  of  this  book,  the 
writer  deems  it  unnecessary  to  say  more,  by  way  of  introduction, 
than  that  they  have  all  (with  the  exception  of  two  or  three  self- 
betraying  bits  of  youthful  fancy)  been  unaffectedly  spontaneous 
with  him,  —  the  inspirations  of  scenes,  events,  characters,  senti 
ments,  and  intellectual  conceptions  specifically  distinguishing 
themselves  to  his  apprehension  as  presentments  naturally  de 
manding  a  poetic,  rather  than  a  prosaic,  form  of  expression. 

The  "  Satires  and  Burlesques  "  should  possess  the  merit  of 
amiability  at  least ;  for,  while  aimed  chiefly  at  various  superfici 
alities  and  false  pretensions  in  politics,  literature,  art,  sentiment, 
and  morals,  their  instigation  has  been,  and  is,  principally  the 
ludicrous,  rather  than  the  sinister,  side  of  the  subject  satirized 
or  burlesqued. 

That  the  only  popular  humor  of  thought  and  personal  character 
which  is  distinctively  American,  and  that  the  particular  imported 
humor  which  has  become  partially  national  with  us  by  marked 
political  and  social  adoption,  seem  to  merit  some  illustration  in 
commemorative  rhyme,  must  be  the  placation  of  the  assthetical 


M134719 


IV  INTRODUCTION. 

taste  possibly  taking  exception  to  the  character-sketches  grouped 
under  the  forewarning  caption  of  "  Illiteraria." 

With  these  brief  preliminary  notes  the  volume  they  introduce 
is  submitted  to  the  mercy  of  the  friendly  and  the  indifferent,  by 
one  who,  having  had  the  honor  to  experience  the  indulgence 
of  the  former  in  his  prose,  trusts  that  the  title  of  his  present 
venture  may  be  esteemed  sufficiently  modest  to  exempt  the 
latter  from  disturbance  by  his  verse. 

NEW  YORK,  April,  1871. 


CONTENTS. 


POEMS. 

PAGE 

THE  MOUNTAIN  PATH i 

PlCCIQLA 6 

ASPASIA          .                                9 

PSYCHE     . 13 

SPRING  VIOLETS  UNDER  THE  SNOW 16 

LINCOLN 18 

ALONE 23 

A  RUSSIAN  LEGEND 26 

THE  WORLD'S  HISTORY 30 

THE  PERFECT  HUSBAND 32 

THE  CONSECRATION 35 

THE  MADMAN 4* 

DOLCE  FAR  NIENTE 51 

OUR  GUIDING  STARS 54 

A  SONG  FOR  THE  UNSUNG 56 

THE  PRISONER  OF  FORTRESS  MONROE  (1866)       .        .  59 

COSMO-BELLA        t 62 

DlTHYRAMBUS 64 

BATTLE-NIGHT 66 

SUMMER 7° 


VI  CONTENTS. 

THE  GENERAL'S  WIFE 72 

THE  MAN  OF  FEELING  .                74 

JOHN  BROWN •  77 

THE  FALLS 82 

LEONORE 86 

THE  MIRROR 89 

THE  BOATSWAIN'S  CALL 92 

THE  MIDNIGHT  WATCH        ......  95 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  THE  OLD 101 

MIDSUMMER 104 

ENGLAND  TO  AMERICA  (1861)  .        .        .        .        e        .  106 

THE  DEATH  OF  THE  ROSES in 

THE  FALLEN  LEAF    .        . 113 

No  MORE 114 

THE  HOPES  OF  DAYS  GONE  BY 116 

WINTER 117 

THE  ANCIENT  CAPTAIN 119 

CHRISTMAS  EVE 121 

THE  DYING  YEAR 129 

THE  LAST  DAY 132 

SEMPER  FIDELIS 137 

THE  VERSE .  138 

SATIRES    AND    BURLESQUES. 
A  FABLE  FOR  STRATEGISTS       .        .        ...        .        .141 

BYRON  CHOLER .        .  150 

THE  HAIRESS .        .        .  152 

ADVICE  TO  A  MAID.     BY  AN  OLD  BACHELOR     .        .  157 


CONTENTS.  Vll 

THE  REJECTED  "  NATIONAL  HYMNS  "      .        .  .161 

AGE  BLUNTLY  CONSIDERED 167 

QUE  VOULEZ-VOUS  ? 169 

DYING  OUT 172 

THE  AMERICAN  TRAVELLER      ....  .  175 

THE  MAUDLIN  MUSE 178 

WOMAN'S  HEART.    BY  SAIRA  NEVERMAIR     .        .        .181 

COLUMBIA'S  AGONY.     (1862.)     BY  MARTIN    FARQUHAR 

TUP— R 184 

"TRUE  STORY."    BY  MRS.  H T  B — CH-R  ST-WE  187 

A  TRUCE 189 

THE  EDITOR'S  WOOING 194 

THE  POETRY  OF  LIFE 196 

STICKING  TO  HIM 197 

DISENCHANTED 200 

THE  NEUTRAL  BRITISH  GENTLEMAN  ....  204 

A  COMPROMISE 207 

ILLITERAR1A. 

SOUTHWESTERN  SKETCHES,  BY  "THE  ARKANSAW  NIGHT 
INGALE." 

THE  BEWITCHED  TERRIER 211 

TUSCALOOSA  SAM 214 

'LIGE  SIMMONS'S  DOG 218 

THE  PHANTOM  GOAT 223 

PAUDEEN.     BY  RAPHAEL  ST.  JOHN          ....  227 

DE   GREAT    HALLELUGERUM.      BY   A    "CONTRABAND" 

REFUGEE.     (1863.) 231 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

THE  UNIVERSAL  EXILE'S  LAMENT       .       .       .       .  235 

THE  IRISH  RECRUIT 238 

WIDOW  MACSHANE 243 

THE  IRISH  PICKET 249 

THE  IRISHMAN'S  CHRISTMAS 252 

THE  IRISH  EDITOR 258 

SONGS  OF  THE  PERIOD. 

"  GIVE  MY  BOX-AND-STRING  TO  BROTHER  "         .  261 

"DEAR  FATHER,  LOOK  UP" 262 

"WHEN  YOUR  CHEAP  DIVORCE  is  GRANTED"    .  263 

"O,  BE  NOT  TOO  HASTY,  MY  DEAREST"  .       .        .  264 

"  WHILE  VIEWING  THIS  MENAGERIE  "  .        .       .  265 


POEMS. 


THE   MOUNTAIN   PATH. 

FAR  in  a  land  where  mighty  mountain  ranges 
Sweep  from  the  plain  to  pinnacles  of  mist ; 
Fires  in  the  opal  day's  prismatic  changes, 

Shades  in  the  night's  star-broken  amethyst ; 
Stood  there  a  Youth  with  staff  and  bundle  laden 

Full  in  the  path  such  pinnacles  to  scale, 
And,  at  his  side,  a  true  and  loving  Maiden, 
The  fairest,  fondest  beauty  of  the  vale. 

White  at  their  feet  the  village  houses  glimmer'd, 

Simple  of  toil  and  eloquent  of  rest, 
Bathed  in  the  rays  through  vine  and  branches  shim- 
mer'd, 

Seen  from  the  height  like  eggs  within  a  nest ;  — 
Each  to  the  eye,  as  came  the  looker's  choosing, 

Shell  for  the  gentlest  Dove  that  wooing  flies, 
Or,  from  its  shelter,  fitted  but  for  loosing 

A  hardy,  fearless  Eaglet  to  the  skies. 

Up  to  the  clouds,  like  World-creating  fingers, 
Reach'd  from  before  the  everlasting  hills  ; 

Stretch'd  from  the  palm  where  warmth  forever  lingers, 
Far  to  the  tips  where  ice  forever  chills. 


2  THE    MOUNTAIN    PATH. 

Thus,  in  the  Hand  of  silent  Nature  reading 
Lines  of  the  fates  the  minds  of  men  command, 

Thoughtful  He  stood,  and,  of  the  Maid  unheeding, 
The  winding,  soaring,  endless  pathway  scann'd. 

Firm  was  his  staff  upon  the  stranded  gravel, 

Straight  was  his  form  with  rigidest  intent, 
Bright  was  his  look  with  all  the  dream  of  travel 

Sleeping  unpractised  in  a  sentiment.  . 
Scarce  did  he  feel  the  arm  upon  his  shoulder, 

Creeping  by  trembles  to  the  softest  yoke  ; 
Poised  for  the  Heights  his  heart  was  growing  colder 

And  shiv'ring,  quiv'ring,  feign'd  the  airy  stroke. 

She,  with  a  face  of  wistful,  mute  appealing, 

Seeking,  and  fearful  still,  to  meet  his  eye, 
Knew  not  enough  of  guile  to  hide  the  feeling 

Born  in  a  glance  and  dying  in  a  sigh  ; 
Bound  in  her  arms  she  sought  to  draw  him  to  her, 

E'en  as  a  mother  wakes  her  child  from  sleep, 
Using  the  fondest  ways  by  which  he  knew  her,  — 

The  wisest,  sweetest  wiles  that  women  keep. 

"  Turn  thee  with  me,"  she  murmur'd,  "  for  thou  kno 
est"  — 

Upon  his  cheek  he  felt  her  glowing  breath  — 
"  Full  many  trav'lers  by  the  way  thou  goest 

Have  but  ascended  higher  unto  Death. 
Fair  is  the  world,  and  wide  enough  extended 

To  spare  the  foot  from  clambering  its  wall ; 
Think,  where  the  prints  of  human  steps  are  ended, 

And  solemn,  awful  Avalanches  fall ! 


THE    MOUNTAIN    PATH.  3 

"  See,  where  is  curling  in  the  vale  below  us 

Smoke  from  the  chimney  of  thy  father's  cot ; 
See,  where  the  ones  whose  loving  best  should  know  us 

Gaze  from  the  roadside  as  they  knew  us  not : 
See,  where  the  cattle  thou  and  I  have  driven 

Wait  for  our  meeting  at  the  wayside  brook  "  ;  — 
Still  like  a  statue,  he,  to  whom  was  given 

A  trancing,  yearning,  breathless,  Upward  look. 

"  Turn  thee  with  me  unto  our  happy  places, 

Nor  wish  the  lonely  desert  steep  to  dare  ; 
Soar  by  the  Love  whose  wing  its  idol  raises 

Nearer  to  Heaven  at  Home,  than  lifted  there. 
Turn  thee  with  me ;  the  twilight  haze  is  falling 

Thick  from  the  summits  like  a  warning  spell  ; 
Hark  !  from  the  hollow  where  to  God  is  calling 

The  slowly  swinging  woodland  chapel  bell." 

Still  was  his  look  upon  the  Path  before  him, 

E'en  as  the  look  of  Youth  aspiring  seems 
When  a  too  daring  thought  for  sleep  comes  o'er  him, 

From  the  wild  vision  of  his  waking  dreams  ! 
Not  for  a  moment  sought  his  eye  the  glances, 

Soft  as  the  sun's  first,  tender  morning  streaks, 
Brightly  distilling  clew  to  lave  by  chances 

The  mantling,  fading  roses  of  her  cheeks. 

Low  was  his  voice,  as  one  who  only  speaketh 
That  to  his  soul  which  no  one  else  should  hear ; 

Quick  were  his  words,  as  one  who,  speaking,  seeketh 
Sounds  from  his  thoughts  to  satisfy  his  ear. 


4  THE    MOUNTAIN    PATH. 

Slowly  her  arms  fell  from  him,  like  a  garland 

Drooping  its  lilies  to  the  swaying  air  ; 
Chill'd  like  the  heart  that  feels  from  others'  far-land 

The  bitter,  wintry  sense  It  is  not  there  ! 

"  Oft  have  I  yearn'd  thy  solitudes  to  measure, 

Sons  of  the  Mist  and  bearers  to  the  sky ; 
Light  from  thy  loftiest  brow  that  cuts  the  azure 

Tranceth  my  spirit  like  a  sleepless  Eye. 
Grand  were  the  joy  from  Height  to  Height  to  wander, 

New  lands  and  seas  o'erlook'd  by  ev'ry  hill  ; 
Nor  with  a  thought  of  tiring  pause  to  ponder 

The  farther,  steeper,  loftier  summit  still ! 

"  Thrones  of  the  Earth,  to  lift  thy  victor  higher, 

Far,  than  the  Kings  who  rule  but  acres  told, 
He  that  can  prove  thy  hoariest  peak's  defier 

Stands  a  Supreme  o'er  all  the  Globe  can  holcl. 
Master  of  Thee,  and  with  no  steep  before  him 

Marking  the  limit  of  his  strength's  assail, 
Then,  with  the  Eagle,  only,  sweeping  o'er  him, 

The  burning,  deathless  Stars  shall  bid  him  Hail ! 

".  See !  where  the  sky  descends  thy  brows  to  gather 

In  the  blue  glories  of  its  highest  span ; 
See  !  where  the  clouds  uplift  their  masses,  rather 

Than,  through  their  veil,  thou  less  enticest  Man. 
Who,  with  a  soul  whose  homage  would  become  thee, 

Thinks  of  the  storms  from  precipices  hurl'd, 
If,  at  the  last,  he  view  in  transports  from  thee, 

The  girdling,  whirling  Wonders  of  the  World!" 


THE    MOUNTAIN    PATH. 

Then  She  again  :  "  O  blinded  self-deceiver, 

And  lost  to  thine  own  nature  as  thou  art ; 
Be  not  thy  brain  in  its  own  fire  believer, 

The  flame  it  feels  is  stolen  from  the  heart! 
Why  unto  Heights  all  desolate  and  lonely 

Go  to  behold  the  distant  world  before, 
When  the  whole  Universe  repeateth  only 

The  nearer,  clearer  World  around  thy  door  ? " 

"  Waves  of  the  soul,  that  strand  it  in  a  heaven  ! "  — 

Fix'd  was  his  look,  and  passionate  his  tone  — 
"  White  with  the  rays  from  endless  morning  given, 

Ring'd  with  the  flashing  splendors  of  the  Zone  : 
Crowns  on  thy  crests  in  fadeless  glory  glisten, 

Bright  as  the  orbs  that  round  thy  temples  glow  j 
And  to  my  ears  there  cometh  as  I  listen 

An  airy,  silv'ry  calling  —  and  I  go  ! " 

Thus,  each  to  each,  the  Youth  and  Maiden  parted  ;  — 

As  birds  that  meet  mid-air  at  hour  of  rest, 
When  one  to  soar  aloft  from  sight  has  started, 

Leaving  the  other  flutt'ring  to  the  nest,  — 
And  She  went  down  into  the  valley  vernal, 

To  love,  and  toil  with  others,  just  the  same, 
And  He  went  up  where  rear  their  heads  eternal 

The  snowy,  lonely  mountain-peaks  of  Fame  ! 


PICCIOLA. 

IT  was  a  Sergeant  old  and  gray, 
Well  singed  and  bronzed  from  siege  and  pillage, 
Went  tramping  in  an  army's  wake, 
Along  the  turnpike  of  the  village. 

For  days  and  nights  the  winding  host 

Had  through  the  little  place  been  marching, 

And  ever  loud  the  rustics  cheer'd, 

'Till  ev'ry  throat  was  hoarse  and  parching. 

The  Squire  and  Farmer,  maid  and  dame, 

All  took  the  sight's  electric  stirring, 
And  hats  were  waved,  and  staves  were  sung, 

And  kerchiefs  white  were  countless  whirring. 

They  only  saw  a  gallant  show 

Of  heroes  stalwart  under  banners, 
And  in  the  fierce  heroic  glow, 

'T  was  theirs  to  yield  but  wild  hosannas. 

The  Sergeant  heard  the  shrill  hurrahs, 
Where  he  behind  in  step  was  keeping; 

But  glancing  down  beside  the  road, 
He  saw  a  little  maid  sit  weeping. 


PICCIOLA.  ; 

"  And  how  is  this  ?  "  he  gruffly  said, 
A  moment  pausing  to  regard  her ;  — 

"  Why  weepest  thou,  my  little  chit  ? "  — 
And  then  she  only  cried  the  harder. 

"  And  how  is  this,  my  little  chit  ?  " 

The  sturdy  trooper  straight  repeated, 

"  When  all  the  village  cheers  us  on, 

That  thou,  in  tears,  apart  art  seated  ? 

"  We  march  two  hundred  thousand  strong, 

And  that 's  a  sight,  my  baby  beauty, 
To  quicken  silence  into  song 
And  glorify  the  soldier's  duty." 

"  It  's  very,  very  grand,  I  know,*' 

The  little  maid  gave  soft  replying ; 

"  And  Father,  Mother,  Brother  too, 

All  say  *  Hurrah '  while  I  am  crying  ; 

"  But  think  —  O  Mr.  Soldier,  think, 

How  many  little  sisters'  brothers 
Are  going  all  away  to  fight 

And  may  be  £///'</,  as  well  as  others  ! " 

"  Why  bless  thee,  child,"  the  Sergeant  said, 
His  brawny  hand  her  curls  caressing, 

"  'T  is  left  for  little  ones  like  thee 

To  find  that  War  's  not  all  a  blessing." 

And  "  Bless  thee  !  "  once  again  he  cried  ; 

Then  clear'd  his  throat  and  look'd  indignant, 


8 


PICCIOLA. 


And  march'd  away  with  wrinkled  brow 
To  stop  the  struggling  tear  benignant. 

And  still  the  ringing  shouts  went  up 

From  doorway,  thatch,  and  fields  of  tillage ; 

The  pall  behind  the  standard  seen 
By  one  alone  of  all  the  village. 

The  oak  and  cedar  bend  and  writhe 

When  roars  the  wind  through  gap  and  braken ; 
But  *t  is  the  tenderest  reed  of  all 

That  trembles  first  when  Earth  is  shaken. 


ASPASIA. 

T  TNDER  the  branches  whose  blossoms  are  fire, 
l^J      Gathering  thrones  in  her  glances  — 
Queen  of  the  lilies  that  nod  to  the  rose, 

Catching  its  color  by  chances  ; 
Treading  a  universe  under  her  feet, 

Lo  !  where  the  goddess  advances. 

Pearls  are  asleep  in  the  waves  of  her  hair, 

Gems  on  her  bosom  are  dreaming ; 
And  from  the  smouldering  worlds  of  her  eyes 

Glories  of  ruin  are  gleaming  — 
Glories  that  glow  from  the  ashes  of  hearts, 

With  a  smile  over  them  beaming  ! 

Rich  is  the  fabric  that  falls  to  her  feet, 

Rare  are  its  labyrinth  laces; 
Deep  in  their  brightness  the  jewels  her  heart 

Throbs  into  meteor  races, 
Each  in  its  beauty  the  torch  of  a  grace, 

Lighting  the  temple  of  graces. 

This  is  her  Court  in  the  Kingdom  of  Night, 
Princes  are  bending  before  her ; 


10  ASPASIA. 

Nobles  and  warriors  wall  her  around, 
Ready  to  serve  and  adore  her ; 

Even  the  sage  breathes  the  incense  of  love 
Cast  by  her  majesty  o'er  her. 

Is  she  not  sanctified  ?     Mark  how  the  priest, 
Heedless  of  all  that  he  preaches, 

Under  the  shallow  disguise  of  the  world 
Wooes  her  with  silvery  speeches  ! 

He  is  a  man,  and  the  heart  in  his  breast 
Lives  on  the  lesson  she  teaches. 

What  is  the  sternness  and  strength  of  a  man, 
Barbarous,  monkish,  or  knightly, 

When  the  Imperial  Passion  commands, 
Ruleth  it  ever  so  lightly  ? 

Naught  but  a  tottering  wall  of  defence 
Rendering  weakness  unsightly  ! 

Beauty  may  dwell  in  the  statue  of  stone, 

As  in  the  living  Circassian  • 
But  in  the  beautiful  sculpture  of  God 

Is  there  what  no  man  can  fashion  — 
Life  that  is  light  bringing  blindness  to  men, 

From  the  high  altar  of  Passion. 

Here  is  the  priestess,  and  here  is  the  queen, 
Fairest  the  light  can  illumine  ; 

Worshipp'd  by  man  in  the  highest  estates 
Granted  on  earth  to  the  human  j 

But  to  her  altar  and  unto  her  throne 
Cometh  no  form  of  a  woman. 


ASPASIA.  1 1 

Woe  to  the  maiden,  or  mother,  or  wife, 

Tempted  by  pity  to  name  her ! 
Even  a  thought  of  the  sisterless  one, 

Charity-given,  would  shame  her; 
Mothers  may  speak  of  the  motherless  one, 

Only  to  shudder  and  blame  her. 

She,  by  her  mind,  is  too  high  for  her  sex  — 

She,  by  her  life,  is  below  it ; 
And  if  the  medium  rests  in  her  soul, 

Woman  disdaineth  to  know  it ; 
Charity,  mark'd  by  a  sneer  of  the  world, 

Findeth  no  woman  to  show  it ! 

She,  in  Philosophy's  fathomless  spring, 

Bathed  her  unsatisfied  spirit ; 
Yearning  for  that  which  is  not  of  the  earth, 

Taking  what  seem'd  to  be  near  it, 
Ere  to  her  youth  came  the  voice  of  the  world, 

Warning  her  spirit  to  fear  it. 

(Life  is  a  harp  for  the  spirit  to  play, 

Given  by  God  to  his  creature  ; 
But  by  the  pride  that  is  virtue  in  man, 

Ruling  his  every  feature, 
All  of  its  music  is  given  to  Art  — 

None  to  the  throbbings  of  Nature.) 

By  the  FIRST  IMPULSE  she  lives  and  is  lost ! 

Sacrificed  unto  the  error, 
That  to  the  earliest  good  in  the  soul 

All  the  round  world  is  a  mirror  ; 


12  ASP^SIA. 

Virtue  the  motive  of  ev'ry  delight, 
Vice  a  perpetual  terror. 

Pure  at  the  first,  she  were  pure  at  the  last, 
Had  her  mind's  purity  met  her ; 

But  it  was  Falsehood,  in  Honor's  disguise, 
That  with  illusions  beset  her, 

Feigning  a  moment  the  truth  of  her  soul, 
Only  to  rivet  its  fetter. 

Think  of  her,  then,  in  her  womanless  court, 
Maidens  with  sisters  and  mothers ! 

Think  of  her,  lonely,  with  hundreds  around, 
Maidens  with  fathers  and  brothers  ! 

Think  of  her,  truthful  and  pure  in  herself, 
Lost  by  the  falsehood  of  others  ! 

Under  the  branches  whose  blossoms  are  fire, 
Gathering  thrones  in  her  glances  — 

Queen  of  the  lilies  that  nod  to  the  rose, 
Catching  its  color  by  chances  ; 

Treading  a  universe  under  her  feet, 
Lo !  where  the  goddess  advances. 


PSYCHE. 

THY  voice  is  in  my  dreams,  O  soul  of  love  !• 
Its  soothing  accents,  murmuringly  low, 
Bend  to  no  words,  but  musically  flow 

In  a  fond  influence ;  as  the  stars  above 
Syllable  light,, that  would  in  sentence  prove 
Bright  as  the  San ;  yet  is  not  e'en  the  Moon. 

Thine  eyes  are,  like  the  camel's,  soft  and  clear, 
And  deep  with  patience  tenderly  subdued, 

As  though  an  angel  gazing  through  them  view'd 
Vistas  of  Heaven  mirror'd  in  the  blear, 

Glimmering  waves,  that  from  afar  appear 
O'er  the  gray  desert's  solitary  noon. 

Thy  touch  is  on  my  life  ;  thy  hands  unseen, 
Blent  with  the  glory  shaded  from  thine  eye 

When  thy  soft  glance  steals  upward  to  the  sky 
Pleadingly,  meekly  —  keep  my  spirit  clean, 

Banishing  stains,  or  making  them  to  mean 
Ashes  from  fire,  or  dust  from  purest  air. 

Thy  form  is  ever  with  me,  day  and  night ; 
The  city's  crowds  of  evil  and  of  good, 


14  PSYCHE. 

The  cool,  green  chambers  of  the  whisp'ring  wood 
Holding  thee  near,  impalpable  to  sight, 

Silently  close,  a  sanctity  to  light 
The  tender  Bible  of  a  mother's  pray'r. 

Thy  feet  are  on  the  path  my  heart  would  take, 
When  weary,  desolate,  and  sick  of  man, 

It  turns  to  where  its  youthful  roadway  ran 
Fairly  to  view,  without  a  shape  to  break 

Loneliness  all ;  yet,  like  a  summer  lake, 

Blithe  with  the  dimpling  dancers  of  the  Sun. 

I  lean  on  thee  for  rest,  as  one  who  feels 
A  heavy  burden  mocking  at  his  strength, 

And  of  his  journey  knoweth  not  the  length, 
Nor  where  the  ending  ;  but  exhausted  reels, 

Pantingly  weak,  to  where  some  turn  reveals 
Stones  of  a  grave  to  plant  his  staff  upon. 

I  know  thou  art  not  dead,  nor  living  thou, 
But  borne  an  airy  sculpture  of  the  breath 

Above  the  lilies  motionless  of  death. 

So  much  the  tomb  hath  marble  from  thy  brow, 

Veinless  of  pain,  as  life  has  lost  but  now 
Of  the  white  innocence  of  perfect  good. 

O  leave  me  not  alone  ;  for  losing  thee, 

I  lose  the  tender  manliness  of  one 
Who,  lest  some  flow'r  be  hidden  from  the  sun 

By  his  frail  shadow  cast  upon  the  lea, 
Thoughtfully  turns  to  where  his  shade  may  be 

Lost  in  the  rustling  twilight  of  the  wood. 


PSYCHE.  15 

My  spirit  clings  to  thee,  and  in  its  spells 
Of  doubting  all  itself  can  worthy  show 

To  hold  thee  steadfast,  sadly  come  and  go 
Fancies  of  ling'ring,  fainting,  far  farewells, 

Mournfully  clear,  as  through  a  fog  the  bells 
Of  some  lost  vessel  sinking  down  at  sea. 

Still  fondly  bide  with  me  ;  for  thou  art  mine, 

As  to  myself  a  nobler  self  belongs, 
The  higher  music  dream'd  in  all  my  songs  ; 

What  of  my  being  might  be  half  divine, 
Rightfully  grown,  in  Nature's  first  design ; 

Not  what  I  was,  nor  am,  but  what  would  be. 

O  keep  me  true  to  thee,  that  naught  defile 

A  truth  unstudied  to  my  fellow-man, 
Plann'd  for  myself;  as  little  children  plan  ; 

Who,  in  their  wisdom,  selfish  without  guile, 
Fancy  the  earth  is  happy  when  they  smile, 

And  think  the  world  is  drowning  when  they  weep. 

Nearer  to  thee  I  come,  as  o'er  me  roll 

The  waved  pulsations  of  ungrateful  Wrong ; 

Though  with  my  shadow  moves  my  grave  along  — 
Nearer  to  thee  for  rest,  as  one  whose  goal 

Forever  is  where  ends  his  latest  stroll, 

On  his  own  shadow  lays  him  down  to  sleep. 


SPRING   VIOLETS   UNDER   THE  SNOW. 

"XT  OTHING  is  lost  that  has  beauty  to  save, 
1  ll     Purity  rises  in  flow'rs  from  the  grave, 
And  from  the  blossoms  that  fade  on  the  tree 
Falleth  the  seed  of  the  blossoms  to  be ; 
Life  unto  Death  is  mortality's  growth, 
Something  immortal  is  under  them  both  : 
Surely  as  cometh  the  Winter,  I  know 
There  are  Spring  Violets  under  the  snow. 

See  the  old  man  in  his  great  easy-chair, 
Furrow'd  his  forehead  and  white  is  his  hair  : 
Yet,  as  he  roguishly  smiles  to  his  dame, 
Pointing  her  eyes  to  the  lovers,  whose  shame 
Makes  them  withdraw  from  the  light  of  the  fire, 
Boyhood,  light-hearted,  reveals  in  the  sire ! 
Surely  as  cometh  the  Winter,  I  know 
There  are  Spring  Violets  under  the  snow. 

See  the  old  wife,  in  her  kerchief  and  cap, 
Dropping  her  knitting-work  into  her  lap, 
While  with  a  laugh  that  is  silent  she  shakes, 
And  o'er  her  shoulder  another  peep  takes  : 


SPRING  VIOLETS  UNDER  THE  SNOW.     I/ 

Years  are  full  fifty  since  she  was  miss, 
Yet  she  's  a  girl  in  that  overheard  kiss ! 
Surely  as  cometh  the  Winter,  I  know 
There  are  Spring  Violets  under  the  snow. 

See  the  Old  People,  with  nods  of  delight, 
Stealing  together  away  for  the  night, 
Ever  too  fond  and  too  cunning  to  own 
Why  they  should  leave  the  shy  lovers  alone ; 
But  their  eyes,  twinkling,  are  telling  the  truth  — 
Down  in  their  hearts  is  an  answering  youth ! 
Surely  as  cometh  the  Winter,  I  know 
There  are  Spring  Violets  under  the  snow. 


LINCOLN. 


""  I  ^  WAS  needed  —  the  name  of  a  Martyr  sublime, 

J_     To  vindicate  God  in  that  terrible  time  ! 
T  was  fitting  the  thunder  of  Heaven  should  roll, 
Ere  cannon  exultant  had  deafen'd  the  soul 
To  what  in  all  ages  the  Maker  hath  taught, 
The  pardon  of  Sin  is  with  suffering  bought. 
And  just  was  the  doom  that  the  lightning  should  fall 
On  him,  the  supreme  and  the  head  of  us  all, 
Ere,  blest  in  his  living  the  triumph  to  seal, 
The  Victor  forgot  what  the  Brother  should  feel. 
For  still  with  the  vanquish'd  we  shared  in  the  guilt 
That  struck  us  at  last  to  the  murderous  hilt ; 
And  still  unto  us  did  the  horror  belong 
Of  helping  a  brother  to  wed  with  the  Wrong, 
'Till,  foster'd  to  treason  by  parent  and  kin, 
A  Traitor  to  both  was  the  child  of  the  Sin. 
Then  thine  to  atone  for  the  shame  in  the  end, 
Our  gentle  First  Citizen,  Chieftain,  and  Friend  ! 


n. 

And  honestly  plain  as  thyself  be  the  verse 
Such  living  and  dying  as  thine  to  rehearse ; 


LINCOLN.  19 

Not  tuned  to  the  rhythmical  music  of  art, 

But  simple  of  note  as  the  pulse  of  the  heart 

That  answers  the  touch  of  the  hand  on  the  strings 

When  man  for  the  noblest  humanity  sings. 

From  page  unto  page  of  thy  story  we  trace 

The  strength  of  thy  manhood,  the  light  of  thy  face  : 

Thy  merciful  soul  and  thy  wisdom  are  there, 

An  honesty  open  and  clear  as  the  air ; 

A  spirit  to  mould  from  the  fetters  of  birth 

A  crown  for  a  peer  of  the  kings  of  the  earth  ; 

A  nature  to  wear  in  the  palace  of  State 

The  mind  of  the  humble  that  stand  at  the  gate; 

A  grace,  of  humanity's  brotherhood  bred, 

To  bend  with  the  wrong  to  the  lowliest  head  ; 

To  bear  up  the  height  unto  freedom  the  Slave, 

And  find  upon  Pisgah  his  thanks  —  and  a  grave ! 

in. 

How  pure  is  the  lustre  of  virtues  that  climb 
Imperial  summits  of  pow'r  in  their  time, 
Unaided  by  patronage,  conquest,  or  birth, 
But  lifted  aloft  by  the  magic  of  worth  : 
Like  jewels  in  primal  reflection  that  shine,  — 
Not  drawn  from  a  casket,  but  raised  from  the  mine, 
A  growth  from  the  sunless  domain  of  the  moles, 
Yet  born  with  a  splendor  of  light  in  their  souls ! 
Behold  where  the  boy  at  the  plough  in  the  West 
Inherits  such  virtues  to  glow  in  his  breast : 
He  knows  not  his  riches ;  he  bendeth  to  toil 
Where  scant  is  the  harvest  and  stubborn  the  soil ; 
While  broods  in  his  bosom  such  patience  serene 
As  giveth  to  labor  its  tenderest  mien. 


2O  LINCOLN. 

None  tell  to  the  liegeless  of  houses  and  lands 
The  fate  of  a  people  shall  rest  in  his  hands ; 
Yet  sleeps  there  a  might  in  the  calm  of  his  eye 
To  rescue  a  nation  from  death  —  and  to  die  ! 


O,  bitterest  lot  that  the  lowly  can  find, 
Where  labor's  monotony  crushes  the  mind, 
Till  poverty,  prison'd  in  poverty  still, 
To  dust  is  degraded,  or  madden'd  to  kill. 
'T  is  thus  in  the  countries  far  over  the  sea, 
But  happy  the  poor  man,  my  Country,  in  thee  ; 
For  wide  over  thee  may  his  industry  range, 
And  sweeten  his  toil  with  the  blessing  of  change. 
From  tracing  the  furrow  and  planting  the  grain, 
The  youth  turneth  back  and  forsaketh  the  plain  : 
He  mates  with  the  boatmen,  and  joins  in  their  song, 
Where  rolleth  the  Father  of  Waters  along  : 
Still  patient  with  fortune,  still  earnest  to  bear 
What  God  and  humanity  mark  for  his  share. 
None  read  from  the  future  his  glorious  fate, 
To  stand  at  the  helm  of  the  vessel  of  State, 
Its  stay  till  the  night  and  the  tempest  are  done, 
And  then  into  Heaven  go  up  with  the  sun ! 


v. 

Well  tried  is  the  genius  that  rises  to  rule 
From  lessons  of  man  in  adversity's  school : 
Ill-balanced  by  honors  too  lavishly  flung, 
It  scorneth  the  level  from  which  it  has  sprung ; 


LINCOLN.  21 

Imbitter'd  by  contest  with  rank  as  it  rose, 

Its  texture  is  iron  that  hardens  with  blows ; 

Or,  true  to  the  balance,  in  victory  mild, 

It  tow'rs  like  a  mountain  grown  up  from  the  wild ; 

Broad-set  at  its  base  in  the  primitive  clod, 

To  shrink  to  a  spire  of  the  temples  of  God. 

So  he,  in  a  grander  simplicity  hale, 

Goes  up  to  a  height  from  obscurity's  vale ; 

So,  true  to  the  lowly,  sublime  with  the  high, 

To  these  he  lends  counsel,  with  those  in  his  eye  : 

"  Half  Free  and  half  Slave  the  Republic  must  fall ; 

Yet  saved  it  shall  be,"  are  his  words  for  us  all  ! 

Time  put  him  to  proof  when  the  issue  was  tried  — 

He  lived  for  the  Deed,  for  the  Principle  died ! 


VI. 


Now,  borne  on  his  countrymen's  louder  acclaim, 

He  mounts  to  the  station  most  noble  of  fame  ; 

A  chief  in  the  halls  where  a  Washington  stood, 

And  like  unto  him  as  the  good  to  the  good. 

Foul  Treason  has  risen,  its  horrors  flame  forth 

To  rouse  from  their  slumbers  the  souls  of  the  North, 

And  pealeth  from  cities,  from  prairies  and  farms, 

The  rallying  cry  of  the  loyal  in  arms. 

War  breaks  on  the  Nation,  she  enters  the  strife 

And  struggles  with  traitors  for  Honor  and  Life ! 

Where  dwelleth  the  spirit  her  being  to  save 

From  murderers  bred  in  the  toil  of  the  slave  ? 

The  Capitol  answers  :  the  spirit  is  there, 

And  holdeth  its  court  in  the  President's  chair. 


22  LINCOLN. 

That  nature  so  gentle  containeth  a  will 

Which  glows  like  a  fire  in  an  air  that  is  still.  — 

Alas  !  that  our  pillar  of  guidance  by  night 

Should  fade  from  the  world  at  the  coming  of  light ! 


VII. 

Why  follow  the  record  ?     His  glories  are  told 

In  all  that  his  people  the  tenderest  hold  : 

A  nation  redeem'd,  and  her  banner  unfurl'd 

The  fairest,  the  strongest,  the  best  in  the  world. 

Henceforth  be  that  Banner  to  patriot  eyes 

A  pray'r  from  its  Shepherd  of  Stars  in  the  skies,  — 

To  plead  that  no  judgment  in  malice  may  fall, 

To  speak  for  a  charity  free  unto  all, 

To  glow  on  the  sword  that  is  drawn  for  the  Right, 

While  merciful  still  in  the  midst  of  the  fight  : 

Henceforth  be  its  legend  for  ages  to  view, 

Its  stripes  of  the  dawn  and  its  planeted  blue, 

That  ere  from  its  story  the  darkness  was  torn, 

A  something  of  Heaven  shed  blood  on  the  morn, 

In  sign  that  't  is  given  the  godlike  of  earth 

To  pass  through  a  death  for  the  millions'  new  birth, 

To  die  of  the  night's  weary  vigil  and  care, 

When  day  the  eternal  first  whitens  the  air. 


ALONE. 

THREE  stalwart  sons  old  Sweyn,  the  Saxon,  had, 
Brave,  hardy  lads  for  battle  or  the  chase ; 
And  though,  like  peasant,  barbarously  clad, 

Each  wore  the  Nameless  Noble  in  his  face  : 
One  o'er  another  rose  their  heads  in  tiers, 
Steps  for  their  father's  honorable  years. 

One  night  in  Autumn  sat  they  round  the  fire, 
In  the  rude  cabin  bountiful  of  Home  ; 

Mild  by  the  rev'rence  due  from  child  to  sire, 
Bold  in  the  manhood  unto  mast'ry  come  ; 

Working  their  tasks  o'er  huntsman's  forest  gear, 

Loos'ning  the  bow  and  sharpening  the  spear. 

Lost  in  his  thoughts,  old  Sweyn,  the  Saxon,  stood, 
Leaning  in  silence  'gainst  the  chimney  stone  ; 

Staring  unconscious  at  the  blazing  wood, 

Steep'd  in  the  mood  of  mind  he  oft  had  known  ; 

As  an  old  tree  whose  stoutest  branches  shake, 

Scarce  from  their  vigor  sign  of  life  will  take. 

Athol,  the  bearded,  with  his  bow  had  done, 
Alfred,  the  nimble,  laid  his  spear  aside, 


24  ALONE. 

Edric,  the  fairest,  tiring  of  his  fun, 

Left  the  old  hound  to  slumber  on  his  hide ; 
Yet  was  their  sire  like  one  whose  features  seem 
Shaded  by  sleep,  and  all  their  light  a  dream. 

Bold  in  the  favor  of  the  eldest  born, 

Athol,  for  both  his  younger  brothers,  spoke  : 

"  Father,  the  fox  is  prowling  in  the  corn, 

And  hear  the  night-owl  hooting  from  the  oak  ; 

Let  us  to  couch."     But  Sweyn  had  raised  his  head, 

And  thus,  unwitting  what  had  pass'd,  he  said  :  — 

"  See,  from  my  breast  I  draw  this  chain  of  gold," 
Fair  in  the  firelight  royally  it  shone,  — 

"  This  for  his  honor  that  shall  best  unfold 
Who,  of  all  creatures,  is  the  most  Alone  ; 

Take  him  from  palace,  monastery,  or  cot, 

Loving  unloved,  forgetting,  or  forgot.'' 

Then  Athol  spoke,  with  thoughtful  tone  and  look  : 
"  He  is  the  loneliest  —  most  Alone  of  all, 

Who,  in  a  skiff  to  the  mid-seas  forsook, 
Finds  not  an  echo,  even,  to  his  call ; 

If  Echo  lived,  not  all  Alone  were  he ; 

But  there  's  no  echo  on  the  solemn  Sea !  " 

And  Alfred  next :  —  "  But  lonelier,  brother,  far, 
The  wretch  that  flies  a  just  avenging  rod. 

To  him  all  scenes  are  wastes,  a  foe  the  star, 

All  earth  he  's  lost,  yet  knows  no  heav'n,  no  God 

Most  Lonely  he,  who,  making  man  his  foe, 

Unto  man's  Maker  dareth  not  to  go  !  " 


ALONE.  25 

Thus  spoke  the  lads,  with  wit  beyond  their  years  ; 

And  yet  the  old  man  held  his  beard  and  sigh'd, 
As  one  who  gains  the  form  his  wishing  wears, 

But  misses  still  a  something  most  denied ; 
Upon  his  youngest  eager  looks  he  turn'd, 
And  Edric's  cheek  with  grace  ingenuous  burn'd. 

"  I  think,  my  father,"  —  and  his  tones  were  low,  — 
"  That  lonelier  yet,  and  most  Alone,  is  he, 

Scarce  taught,  though  crowds  are  leading,  where  to  go, 
And  one  face  missing  can  no  other  see  ; 

Though  all  the  Norman's  court  around  him  moves, 

He  is  Alone  apart  from  Her  he  loves." 

A  hush  fell  on  them.     Then,  with  loving  air 
And  all  the  touching  romance  of  the  Old, 

The  hoary  father  kiss'd  young  Edric's  hair, 

And  o'er  his  shoulders  threw  the  chain  of  gold  ; 

Then  fell  upon  his  darling's  neck  and  cried  : 

"  I  have  been  Lonely  since  thy  Mother  died  !  " 


A  RUSSIAN   LEGEND. 

>'T"^  WAS  night,  dead  night  in  the-  frozen  North, 
_L     Where  the  weird  Aurora  gleams 

On  the  crystal  course  of  the  snow-white  horse 
Of  the  god  of  sleepless  dreams  ; 

And  the  light  of  the  stars,  in  glassy  bars, 
Was  cold  as  the  dead  eye  seems. 

The  air  was  thick  with  the  deadly  breath 

Of  the  Arctic  iceberg-king, 
That  falls  like  a  blight  of  a  winter's  night, 

In  a  tight'ning,  freezing  ring 
On  the  throbbing  brow  and  the  heart  below 

Of  the  mortal  perishing. 

'Twas  night,  dead  night,  and  the  village  lights 
Were  gone,  like  ghosts,  in  the  gloom 

That  midnight  fill'd  with  the  silence  chill'd 
Of  an  open,  trackless  tomb  ; 

But  a  skater  stood  on  a  frozen  flood, 
Still-born  in  the  ocean's  womb. 

His  head  to  the  misty  East  he  bent, 
And  peer'd  in  the  distance  far, 


A    RUSSIAN    LEGEND.  2/ 

Like  one  who  sought,  or  an  instant  caught, 

The  ray  of  a  guiding  star  ; 
Then  spurn'd  with  a  heel  of  flashing  steel 

The  path  of  the  whirlwind's  car. 

And  swift  as  a  shaft  from  bowstring  sped, 

He  flew  with  a  noiseless  speed  ; 
And  the  blushing  flights  of  the  Northern  Lights 

Shook  down  the  blazing  seed 
Of  rainbows  spread  o'er  the  river  deacj ; 

But  the  skater  took  no  heed. 

His  eyes  were  set  in  a  ghastly  stare 

At  the  gate  of  an  unborn  day, 
And  the  sparks  flew  back  in  his  shining  track 

As  he  sped  to  the  East  away, 
And  little  he  reck'd  though  the  rainbows  fleck'd 

The  ice  in  a  prismal  spray. 

"  I  come,  my  love,  on  the  wind  !  "  he  cried, 

"  And  swift  must  the  sea-bird  be 
That  reaches  the  nest  of  the  mate  loved  best 

In  his  crag  beside  the  sea, 
Before  I  can  kiss,  with  a  bridegroom's  bliss, 

The  cheek  that  is  pale  for  me. 

"  I  Ve  sworn  it,  too,  o'er  the  bridal  wine, 

To  ride  on  my  steeds  of  steel 
Far  over  the  tide,  to  my  maiden's  side, 

Ere  dawn  shall  the  East  reveal ; 
And  lo  !  I  defy  all  of  earth  or  sky 
To  fetter  my  winged  heel ! " 


28  A    RUSSIAN    LEGEND. 

He  spoke  :  a  blast  came  out  of  the  North 
With  mystic  and  whisp'ring  sound  ; 

It  struck  like  a  knife  to  the  skater's  life, 
And  his  impious  lips  it  bound 

In  a  living  death,  that  his  smoking  breath 
In  vain  might  linger  around. 

And  a  stiff'ning  film  was  in  his  eyes, 

And  an  adamantine  band 
Crept  round  his  heart,  with  a  deaden'd  smart, 

And  held  it  numbly  spann'd  ; 
And  the  skater  felt,  on  his  shoulder-belt, 

The  grasp  of  an  icy  hand  ! 

A  fearful  voice  from  the  blast  came  out  — 

"  Now,  skater,  away,  away  ! 
On  a  steed  of  steel,  with  a  winge'd  heel, 

Before  't  is  the  break  of  day, 
Where  a  bride  now  waits  for  the  ring  of  skates, 

And  where  she  may  wait  for  aye  ! 

"  Then  ride  !  then  ride  !  thou  skater  bold, 
Who  fear  not  the  Earth  nor  Sky ; 

And  the  hand  of  the  strong  shall  urge  along 
Till  the  tempests  slower  fly ; 

But  before  thy  pace  shall  have  won  the  race 
The  bride  who  waits  may  die  !  " 

Then  swift  as  flash  from  the  eye  of  storms, 
And  swift  as  the  leap  of  thought, 

The  skater  he  sped  o'er  the  river  dead, 
To  the  shadows,  strangely  wrought, 


A    RUSSIAN    LEGEND.  2 

Of  the  mountains  grim,  where  the  spectres  dim 
Have  their  revels  often  sought. 

He  felt  that  his  blood  was  clogging  fast, 

And  his  limbs  grew  stiff  and  chill  ; 
But  the  viewless  hand,  on  his  shoulder-band, 

Kept  pressing  him  onward  still  ! 
And  he  knew,  for  his  crime,  through  endless  time 

'T  would  press,  but  it  would  not  kill ! 

The  river  led  to  the  frozen  sea, 

The  sea  unto  seas  did  run  ; 
And  the  hand  press'd  on  when  the  night  was  gone, 

Nor  ceased  when  the  day  was  done  ; 
And  the  skater  flew  from  the  land  he  knew 

To  a  land  without  a  sun. 

No  more  from  thence  to  return  again 

To  the  lonely  waiting  bride, 
Where  she  wept  and  pray'd  for  the  lover  stray'd 

From  a  heart  so  true  and  tried  ; 
And  then,  when  the  year  to  its  end  was  near, 

Like  a  lily  broken  died. 


THE   WORLD'S   HISTORY. 

A  BABY  smiling  on  a  mother's  knee, 
A  faint  ray  breaking  o'er  an  Eastern  sea, 
A  green  leaf  peeping  from  a  root  deep  set, 
A  candle  waxen,  and  unlighted  yet. 

A  school-boy  mimicking  a  lark's  clear  cry, 
A  red  flush  blazoning  a  morning  sky, 
A  frail  twig  bending  to  a  zephyr's  thought, 
A  candle  twinkling  with  a  spark  just  caught. 

A  lover  kneeling  to  a  maiden  fair, 
A  sun  all  golden  in  a  cloudless  air, 
A  bud  slow  swelling  on  a  fragrant  bough, 
A  candle  crested  with  a  white  flame  now. 

A  soldier  fighting  for  a  prize  ne'er  gained, 
A  spot  of  fever  on  a  zenith  stain'd, 
A  branch  low  drooping  with  a  fruit  half  sear, 
A  candle  gutt'ring  with  a  jaundiced  blear. 

A  miser  gloating  at  a  coffer's  brim, 
A  gray  gleam  ending  in  a  twilight  dim, 
A  dry  leaf  crackling  in  a  wintry  fall, 
A  candle  smoking  to  a  shadow'd  wall. 


THE  WORLD'S  HISTORY.  31 

A  dotard  gasping  in  a  parson's  ear, 
A  pale  star  dying  in  a  storm-cloud  near, 
A  tall  tree  loosening  a  clasp'd  root-hand, 
A  candle  flickering  at  a  wick's  last  strand. 

A  shadow  resting  on  a  square  of  white, 
A  sun's  ghost  walking  in  a  noon  of  night, 
A  prone  trunk  hollow  to  a  worm's  vile  tread, 
A  candle  wasted  and  a  mortal  dead. 


THE   PERFECT   HUSBAND. 


AS  Light  unto  the  Morn, 
So  Time  to  him  unfolds  her 
As  holds  the  day  the  light, 

So  unto  him  he  holds  her. 
A  fairer  than  himself, 

To  crown  his  manhood  given, 
A  something  less  of  earth  — 
A  something  more  of  Heaven. 


He  deems  her  not  a  Saint  — 

In  loving  she  is  human  — 
And  as  he  is  a  Man, 

The  dearer  she  as  Woman. 
Not  down  on  her  he  looks, 

Nor  up  to  an  Ideal, 
But  straight  into  her  eyes,    . 

And  all  his  love  is  real. 


As  bends  the  sturdy  tree 
To  shade  a  pool  of  water, 

But  standeth  like  a  rock 

When  wind  and  torrent  slaughter ; 


THE    PERFECT    HUSBAND.  33 

So  bends  he  unto  her 

When  gentlest  her  controlling, 
So  stands  he  as  a  wall 

When  dangers  round  are  rolling. 

'T  is  not  by  given  Right, 

Or  Privilege,  he  rules  her ; 
For  't  is  his  grace  to  yield, 

That  in  obeying  schools  her ; 
And  if  the  less  himself 

From  troublous  cause,  or  other, 
A  sharing  Sister  she, 

And  he  a  patient  Brother, 

As  she  may  have  a  fault, 

So  he  may  have  a  greater, 
And  sorrow  for  his  own 

For  both  is  expiator ; 
And  if  upon  her  sleeve 

She  snares  a  passing  folly, 
He  frights  it  with  a  smile, 

And  not  with  melancholy. 

He  slaves  her  truth  to  him 

By  no  confining  portal, 
But  in  himself  reflects 

Its  counterpart  immortal. 
The  freedom  that  he  gives 

Is  taken  from  the  donor : 
A  Husband's  faith  may  rest 

Upon  a  Husband's  honor. 

2*  C 


34  THE    PERFECT    HUSBAND. 

And  ever  as  a  child, 

When  childish  she,  he  chides  her, 
And  ever  as  a  man, 

When  she  is  strong,  he  guides  her : 
Through  sunshine  and  through  shade, 

Through  blessing  and  disaster, 
In  more  than  name,  her  Friend, 

In  less  than  law,  her  Master. 


THE   CONSECRATION. 

THE  woodlands  caught  the  airy  fire  upon  their 
vernal  plumes, 
And  echo'd  back  the  waterfall's  exultant,   trilling 

laugh  ; 
And  through  the  branches  fell  the  light,  in  slender 

golden  blooms. 
To  write  upon  the  sylvan  stream  the  Naiad's  epitaph. 

On  either  side  the  sleeping  vale  the  mountains  swell'd 

away, 

Each,  bred  of  Nature's  lore,  a  grand  and  solitary  sage ; 
And  brightly  in  the  teeming  plain  the  river  went  astray, 
Like  an  exhaustless  vein  of  Youth  wound  through 
a  green  Old  Age. 

The  turtle  woo'd  his  gentle  mate,  where  thickest  hung 

the  boughs, 
While   round   them   fell  the   blossoms   pluck'd  by 

robins'  wanton  bills ; 
And  on  its  wings  the  zephyr  caught  the  music  of  his 

vows, 

To  waft  a  strain  responsive  to  the  chorus  of  the 
hills. 


36  THE    CONSECRATION. 

'T  was  in  a  nook  beside  the  stream  where  grapes  in 

clusters  fell, 
And  'twixt  the  trees  the  swaying  vines  were  lost  in 

leafy  show'rs, 

That  fauns  and  satyrs,  tamed  to  rest  beneath  the  noon 
day  spell. 

Gave  silent  ear  and  witness  to  the  meeting  of  the 
flow'rs. 

The  glories  of  the  fields  were  there  in  summer's  bright 

array, 
The  virgins  of  the  temple  vast  where  Noon  to  Ev'n- 

ing  nods, 
To  crown  as  queen  of  all  the  rest  whose  bosom  should 

display 
The  signet  of  a  mission  blest,  the  cipher  of  the  gods. 

The  royal  Lily's  sceptred  cup  besought  an  airy  lip, 
The  Rose's  stooping  coyness  told  the* bee  was  at  her 

heart, 
While  all  the  other  sisters  round,  with  many  a  dainty 

dip, 

Sought  jewels  hidden  in  the  grass,  and  waved  its 
spears  apart. 

"We  seek  a  queen,"  the  Lily  said,  "  and  she  shall  wear 

the  crown 
Who  to  the  Mission  of  the  Blest  the  fairest  right 

shall  prove ; 

For  unto  her,  whoe'er  she  be,  has  come  in  sunlight  down 
The  badge  of  Nature's  Royalty,  from  angel  hands 
above. 


THE    CONSECRATION.  37 

"  I  go  to  deck  the  wreath  that  binds  a  fair,  imperial 

brow, 
Whose  whiteness  shall  not  be  the  less  that  mine  is 

purer  still  ; 

For  though  a  band  of  sparkling  gems  is  set  upon  it  now, 
'T  will  be  the  fairer  that  the  Church  in  me  beholds 
her  will." 

"  I  claim  a  loyal  suitor's  touch,"  the  Rose  ingenuous 
said, 

.    "  And  he  will  choose  me  when  he  seeks  the  bow'r  of 
lady  fair, 

To  match  me,  with  a  smile,  against  her  cheek's  betray 
ing  red, 

And  place  me,  with  a  kiss,  within  the  shadows  of  her 
hair." 

And  next  the  proud  Camellia  spoke  :  "  Where  festal 

music  swells, 
And   solemn  priest,  with  gown   and  book,  a  knot 

eternal  ties, 

I  go  to  hold  the  veil  of  her  who  hears  her  marriage-bells, 
And  pledges  all  her  life  unto  the  Love  that  never 
dies." 

The  Laurels  raised  their  glowing  heads,  and  into  lan 
guage  broke  : 

"  'T  is  ours  to  honor  gallant  deeds  that  awe  a  crouch 
ing  world  ; 
We  rest  upon  the  warrior's  helm  when  fades  the  battle's 

smoke, 

And  bloom  perennial  on  the  shield  that  back  the 
foeman  hurl'd." 


38  THE    CONSECRATION. 

And  other  sisters  of  the  field,  the  woodland,  and  the 

vale, 
Each  told  the  story  of  her  work,  and  glorified  her 

quest ; 
But  none  of  all  the  noble  ones  had  yet  reveal'd  the 

tale, 

That  taught  them  from  the  gods  she  wore  the  signet 
in  her  breast. 

At  length  the  zephyr  raised  a  leaf,  the  lowliest  of  the 

low,  • 

And  there,  behold  a  Violet  the  Spring  let  careless 

slip; 

Beyond  its  season  blooming  there  where  newer  beau 
ties  grow, 

Enshrined  like  an  immortal  thought  that  lives  beyond 
the  lip. 

"We  greet  thy  presence,  little  one,"  the  graceful  Lily 

said, 
And  quiver'd  with  a  silent  laugh  behind  her  snowy 

screen, 

"  Upraise  unto  the  open  sun  thy  modest  little  head ; 
For  here,  perchance,  in  thee  at  last  the  Flow'rs  have 
found  their  queen." 

A  tremor  shook  the  timid  flow'r,  and  soft  her  answer 

came  ; 

"  'T  is  but  a  simple  duty  left  to  one  so  small  as  I ; 
And  yet  I  would  not  yield  it  up  for  all  the  higher  fame 
Of  nodding  on  a  hero's  helm,  or  catching  beauty's 
eye. 


THE    CONSECRATION.  39 

"I  go  to  where  an  humble  mound  uprises  in  a  field, 
With  not  a  sculptured  line  to  mark  the  lonely  sleeper's 

name  ; 
Where,    in   the   solitude    of    death,    the    sacrifice   is 

seal'd, 
That  made  a  solitude  of  life  to  bear  another's  blame. 


"  I  go  to  blossom  o'er  the  heart  that  felt  the  scorn  of 

men 
While  breaking,  in  its  patient  love,  a  brother-man  to 

save ; 
To   die  of  wintry  cold,  as  he,  and  with  the  Spring 

again 

To  blossom,"  said  the  Violet,  "  upon  his  friendless 
grave." 

There  fell  a  hush  on  all  the  flow'rs  ;  but  from  a  distant 

grove 
Burst  forth  the  anthem  of  the  birds  in  one  grand 

peal  of  praise  ; 
As  though  the  stern  old  Forest's  heart  had  found  its 

early  love, 
And  all  of  earth's  sublimity  were  melted  in  its  lays ! 

Then,  as  the  modest  flow'r  upturn'd  her  blue  eye  to  the 

sun, 
There  fell  a  dew-drop  on  her  breast,  as  shaken  from 

a  tree  ; 
The  lowliest  of  the  sisterhood  the  godlike  Crown  had 

won  ; 
Foi  hers  it  was  to  consecrate  Truth's  Immortality. 


4O  THE    CONSECRATION. 

The  woodlands  caught  the  airy  fire  upon  their  vernal 

plumes, 
And  echo'd  back  the  waterfall's  exultant,  trilling 

laugh ; 
And  through  the  branches  fell  the  light,  in  slender 

golden  blooms, 
To  glorify  the  Violet,  the  Nameless  Epitaph. 


THE  MADMAN. 

GO  count  the  glimm'ring  lanterns  of  the  sky, 
r   And  be  thou  priest  of  all  their  mystic  rites ; 
That  when  the  world  shall  ask  —  What  makes  them  fly 
Through  boundless  space,  nor  blend  with  other  lights  ? 
Thy  tongue,  with  subtlety,  may  show  their  flights 
To  be  obedient  to  a  set  of  rules 
Laid  down  by  learned  men,  who  make  the  nights 
Their  hours  of  study,  and  do  teach  in  schools 
That  ancient  scholars  were  less  wise  than  modern  fools. 

Mark  well  the  current  of  a  woman's  thought, 
When,  on  his  knees,  the  master  of  her  heart 
Pleads,  with  the  eloquence  his  love  hath  taught, 
For  one  short  word  ;  and  see  her  quickly  start, 
As  though  't  were  unexpected  on  her  part ; 
And  see  her  shun  the  form  she  longs  to  press, 
And  see  her  practise  a  defiant  art  — 
Then  tell  me,  if  the  riddle  thou  canst  guess, 
Why  says  she  falsely  "  No,"  while  her  fond  heart  says 
"Yes"? 

But  who  can  read  the  human  mind,  and  tell 
How  all  its  qualities  should  order'd  be  ?       , 


42  THE    MADMAN. 

And  how  arranged,  its  secret  springs  work  well, 

And  how,  disorder'd  by  insanity  ? 

O,  who  shall  justify  the  vanity 

Of  those  who  boast  of  reason,  and  will  show 

That,  in  the  system  of  humanity, 

The  mind  is  darken'd,  when  it  does  not  glow 

With  the  reflected  light  of  other  minds  below? 

I  Ve  seen  a  madman  ;  and  they  call'd  him  so 

Because  he  scorn'd  the  ways  of  other  men ; 

Yet,  as  he  walks  his  dungeon  to  and  fro, 

His  pride  is  like  the  lion's  in  his  den  ; 

And  you  would  style  them  prince  and  subject  when 

His  jailor  enters,  to  inquire  of  him 

If  he  has  any  orders  there  and  then, 

Which,  being  answer'd,  may  assuage  his  whim  ? 

But  you  shall  hear  how  I  did  chance  to  meet  with  him. 

'T  was  in  a  madhouse  !    Do  not  start,  good  friend, — 

I  am  not  mad,  nor  even  like  to  be 

(Though  there  are  many  people  who  pretend 

That  I  am  crazed,  because  my  words  are  free). 

I  only  went  to  visit ;  just  to  see 

How  the  poor  maniac  differ'd  from  the  man 

Of  Reason  ;  and  how  his  philosophy 

Went  roving  from  the  nicely  order'd  plan 

That  Custom  dictates,  since  its  potent  reign  began. 

The  keeper  was  a  jolly  fellow,  born 

With  a  broad,  stationary  laugh  upon  his  face, 

That  age  to  countless  wrinkles  deep  had  worn ; 


THE    MADMAN.  43 

And,  as  he  guided  me  about  the  place, 

He  jested  oft,  and  with  a  homely  grace, 

Upon  the  creatures  held  in  bondage  there ; 

And  dwelt  upon  the  evils  of  his  race, 

With  such  a  laughing  and  triumphant  air, 

That  one  might  almost  think  he  gloried  in  despair. 

"  Yonder,"  said  he,  "  you  see  that  female  dress'd 

In  bits  of  carpet,  and  a  crimson  skirt  ? 

Well,  she  was  once  with  twenty  lovers  blest, 

But —  would  you.  b'lieve  me?  —  the  confounded  flirt 

Just  play'd  with  all,  until  their  hearts  were  hurt, 

And  then  she  sent  them  sighing  from  her  side, 

And  told  the  story  in  a  manner  pert ; 

But,  sir,  she  spoil'd  her  chance  to  be  a  bride  — 

And  here  she  is  at  last,  and  here  will  she  abide. 

"  That  fellow  was  a  poet,  and  I  hear 
He  wrote  good  verses  —  or,  at  least,  't  is  clear 
He  thought  so  —  but  some  surly  critic's  sneer 
Sent  him  to  Boston  first ;  then  he  came  here. 
O,  you  should  hear  him  talk  of  *  Jenny,  dear,' 
And  all  the  orange-blossoms  in  her  hair, 
And  how  he  honestly  believes  her  tear 
To  be  a  dew-drop,  fragrant,  and  as  fair 
As  ever  '  took  its  flight '  through  '  Eden's'  —  something 
—  <  air.' 

"  Here  's  an  old  maid.  —  Law,  Betty,  don't  be  mad 
(But  she  is  mad,  sir,  as  a  hare  in  March), 
I  'm  sure  this  single  gentleman  is"  glad 
To  meet  a  lady  graceful  as  a  larch. 


44  THE    MADMAN. 

Ah,  sir !  (aside)  for  all  she  looks  so  arch, 

She  is  as  crazy  as  a  bug  in  bed ; 

And  daily  covers  all  her  head  with  starch, 

Because  she  fancies  that  her  hair  is  red. 

Poor  thing !  she  's  only  mad  because  she  cannot  wed. 

"  And  there  's  a  lawyer  —  such  a  lively  chap  !  — 

Who  's  always  arguing  some  mighty  '  cause ' ; 

And  sometimes  takes  that  dog  upon  his  lap, 

And  talks  to  it  about  the  '  Statute  Laws,' 

As  though  the  animal,  instead  of  paws, 

Had  hands  to  furnish  an  enormous  fee ; 

Or,  as  a  pris'ner,  long'd  to  find  some  clause 

That  might  entitle  him  to  liberty. 

O,  he  's  the  strangest  man  —  and  mad  as  mad  can  be  ! 

"But  here  's  the  wildest  madman  of  them  all  — 

You  see  we  have  to  bind  him  with  a  chain. 

He  has  a  notion  that  the  sky  would  fall 

If  he,  as  Emperor,  should  cease  to  reign  • 

In  fact,  sir,  he  is  hopelessly  insane, 

And  raves  so  strangely,  in  his  frantic  way, 

That  all  attempts  to  quiet  him  are  vain 

Until  the  fit  has  left  him  for  the  day. 

Just  speak  to  him,  good  sir,  and  see  what  he  will  say." 

A  wreck  of  manhood  stood  within  a  cell, 
Where  endless  night  with  the  inconstant  morn 
For  mast'ry  strove  ;  and  from  his  waist  there  fell 
An  iron  chain,  that  in  his  writhes  had  torn 
Great,  gaping  wounds,  and  on  his  limbs  had  worn 


THE    MADMAN.  45 

The  brand  of  infamy  —  a  felon's  brand. 

His  robe  was  rags,  his  beard  was  all  unshorn, 

And  like  a  vulture's  talon  was  his  hand  — 

Yet  proud  as  king  of  countless  kingdoms  did  he  stand ! 

"  Why  are  you  here  ? "  respectfully  I  said  ; 
For  there  was  something  in  his  aspect  then  — 
A  crown  of  nature  on  his  fallen  head  — 
That  gave  the  fetter'd  madman  in  his  den 
An  air  superior  to  common  men. 
I  felt  as  they  who  ruin'd  temples  see, 
And  own  the  influence  of  past  ages,  when 
Each  pillar  tower'd  in  matchless  symmetry, 
And  ev'ry  hall  echo'd  the  tread  of  royalty ! 

The  madman  heard  me  with  a  nervous  start, 

And  glared  upon  me  with  his  blazing  eyes, 

Then  placed  a  wither'd  hand  upon  his  heart 

(Or  where  the  heart  of  reasoning  people  lies), 

As  one  tormented  with  strange  terror  tries 

To  close  his  bosom  'gainst  a  full  belief 

Of  some  dread  woe  that  on  a  rumor  flies  — 

And,  in  his  fear,  scarce  comprehends  his  grief. 

Thus  stood  that  human  wreck  upon  misfortune's  reef. 

"  Why  came  I  here  !  "  he  said  ;  while  from  his  lips 
The  froth  went  streaming  o'er  his  matted  beard, 
And  thence  upon  his  breast :  "Why  come  the  ships 
Unto  their  ports  ?     Because  by  MAN  they  're  steer'd. 
'I  am  a  ship  ;  and  when  I  boldly  veer'd 
From  Custom's  pathway  and  his  common  home, 
Men  seized  my  vital  tiller,  loudly  jeer'd, 


46  THE    MADMAN. 

And  to  the  port  of  madness  made  me  come ! 

But  I  defy  them  all  —  King,  Kaiser,  Pope  of  Rome  ! " 

"  He  raves  !  "  the  keeper  whisper'd.     "  Let  us  go  ! " 
"  Not  yet,"  I  answer'd  ;  for  a  mystic  spell 
Was  stealing  o'er  my  senses ;  and  the  woe 
Of  him  before  me  in  that  dreary  cell 
Was  like  the  shadowy  waters  of  a  well 
Wherein  I  saw  familiar  features,  fraught 
With  the  strange  meaning  of  an  hour  when  fell 
A  midnight  blackness  on  my  world  of  thought, 
And  all  my  inmost  soul  its  dark  contagion  caught. 

"  Tell  me  the  tale,"  I  mutter'd,  in  a  tone 

So  deep  in  its  intensity,  and  wild, 

That  I  did  scarcely  know  it  for  my  own. 

And  then  the  madman  shook  his  head  and  smiled  — 

But  such  a  smile  !     It  was  of  mirth  defiled 

With  the  new  traces  of  a  thousand  tears,  — 

Each  tear  of  some  dread  agony  the  child,  — 

A  smile  that  Death  in  ghastly  triumph  wears  ; 

One  gleam  of  wrinkled  light  upon  a  storm  of  years  ! 

"  Hear  me  !  "  he  shouted.     "  Hear  the  wondrous  tale 

That  might  confound  a  chicken-hearted  slave, 

And  make  him  shudder,  and  his  cheek  turn  pale , 

But  if,  like  me,  thou  dost  not  fear  to  brave 

A  world  of  fools,  nor  findest  in  each  grave 

A  ghost  to  haunt  thee  in  its  winding-sheet, 

Thou  shalt  exult  with  me  when  I  do  rave, 

And  glory  in  the  wonders  I  repeat ; 

For  we  are  man  and  man  —  in  sympathy  we  meet ! 


THE    MADMAN.  47 

"  I  loved  a  maiden  once,  —  a  gentle  girl, 

Bred  in  a  valley  where  the  sloping  hills 

Reflect  each  other's  beauties.     Like  a  pearl, 

In  a  rude  shell,  I  found  her  ;  and  the  rills 

That  mock  the  birds  of  summer' with  their  trills 

Were  not  more   pure,   more  fresh,   more  bright  than 

she. 

Hers  was  a  beauty  that  the  bosom  thrills 
With  the  love-notes  of  its  own  ecstasy ; 
And  her  fond  guileless  heart  knew  me,  and  only  me  ! 

"  We  stood  before  the  altar  at  the  hour 
When  all  the  west  is  planted  thick  with  light, 
And  ev'ry  cloud  is  bursting  into  flow'r, 
And  blooms  amid  the  banners  of  the  night. 
We  wedded,  and  I  left  her  ;  for  the  sight 
Of  her  sweet  blushes  so  o'ercharged  my  soul 
With  wondrous  joy,  that  I  was  madden'd  quite, 
And  in  my  madness  could  not  brook  control ; 
Man  knew  not  half  my  bliss  —  God,  only,  knew  the 
whole ! 

"  I  wander'd  in  the  fields,  yet  saw  no  earth, 

Nor  sun,  nor  sky  ;  for  I  was  in  a  dream 

That  gave  unto  another  world  a  birth. 

O  God  !  had  this  world  been  as  that  did  seem  ! 

But  I  awoke,  to  find  the  subtle  beam 

Of  madness  fled.     I  had  been  dreaming  long ; 

But  Reason  seized  again  the  rule  supreme, 

And  as  she  checked  fond  Love's  delusive  song, 

My  guilty  soul  was  conscious  of  a  heavy  wrong  ! 


48  THE    MADMAN. 

"  I  sought  my  bride  again.     She  smiled  on  me, 

And  placed  her  little  hands  within  my  own, 

And  kiss'd  my  forehead  so  confidingly, 

That  I  could  scarce  repress  the  rising  groan. 

O  God  !    Why  had  I  not  a  heart  of  stone, 

To  save  her  blessed  spirit  from  the  taint 

Of  selfish  love,  that,  in  its  wild  desire, 

Would  see  the  mortal  only  in  the  saint, 

And  make  a  pretext  of  its  holy  fire  ? 

But  I  wash'd  out  my  guilt  —  the  sacrifice  was  dire  ! 


"  They  led  her  to  her  couch,  and  when  I  sought 
The  old  oak  chamber,  at  a  later  hour, 
Angels  of  slumber  o'er  her  soul  had  wrought 
The  subtle  influence  of  their  gentle  pow'r 
And  woven  dreams.     The  minutes  that  devour 
The  night  were  nearing  Twelve  ;  above  the  hill 
The  moon  swept  slowly,  and  her  silver  show'r 
Stream'd  softly,  coldly,  o'er  the  window-sill ; 
Tired  Nature  slept  in  peace,  and  all  was  hush'd  and 
still. 

"  With  noiseless  step,  I  cross'd  the  chamber  floor, 

Drew  the  pale  curtains  of  the  couch  aside, 

And,  like  a  troubled  spirit  on  the  shore 

Of  a  lost  Heav'n,  I  look'd  upon  my  bride. 

O,  she  was  beautiful !  and,  in  the  pride 

Of  fearless  innocence,  she  calmly  slept, 

Like  rosebud  on  a  lily  open'd  wide ; 

And,  as  a  dream-laugh  o'er  her  features  crept, 

The  fountain  of  my  tears  flow'd  over,  and  I  wept ! 


THE    MADMAN.  49 

"  But  as  I  wept,  I  saw  a  bitter  sneer 

Drawn  with  a  moonbeam  on  a  spectral  face 

Press'd  close   against  the  glass.      '  Fool !    dost  thou 

fear    • 

To  rise  superior  to  thy  coward  race  ? ' 
A  taunting  echo  rang  about  the  place, 
And  my  great  purpose  was  revived  again 
'  I  do  not  fear  ! '  I  cried.     '  God  grant  me  grace 
To  yield  to  thee  a  soul  without  a  stain  ; 
She  came  unstain'd  to  me,  and  spotless  shall  remain  ! ' 

"  I  bent  above  her,  and  she  gave  a  start  — 
Like  one  affrighted  —  softly  breathed  my  name, 
Then  slumber'd  on.     Then  I  did  act  a  part 
That  might  eclipse  a  Christian  martyr's  fame, 
And  make  the  laurell'd  hero  blush  for  shame  ; 
Down  through  the  snowy  temple  of  the  soul 
I  struck  the  glitt'ring  blade,  and  quench'd  the  flame 
Of  a  young  life,  that  all  the  brightness  stole 
From  my  own  martyr'd  heart,  as  the  red  drops  did 
roll! 

"  They  call'd  me  MADMAN  for  it,  fetter'd  me, 
And  shut  me  in  a  prison  —  where  I  stand 
To  bear  the  bitter  mockings  of  the  free, 
And  live  a  by-word  for  a  darken'd  land  ! 
Virginius  slew  his  child  with  his  own  hand, 
To  save  her  from  a  tyrant  j  I  did  slay 
My  bride  to  save  her  from  myself !     How  grand 
The  deed  !     Yet  worlds  their  lasting  homage  pay 
Unto  the  Roman  HERO  —  but  I  'm  MAD,  they  say  !  " 
3  D 


5<3  THE    MADMAN. 

The  madman  paused,  and  turn'd  away  his  face  — 

As  though  he  would  not  have  a  stranger  know 

That  he  could  weep.     Then,  with  the  haughty  grace 

Of  one  to  empire  born,  he  bade  me  go 

Forth  from  his  royal  presence  !     Bowing  low, 

I  left  him  in  his  solitary  den 

To  weep,  and  rave,  and  live,  and  die,  as  though 

He  to  the  world  unknown  had  ever  been, 

And,  being  curs'd  of  God,  was  doubly  curs'd  of  men  ! 


DOLCE  FAR  NIENTE.  . 


STILL  as  a  fly  in  amber  hangs  the  world, 
In  a  transparent  sphere  of  golden  hours, 
With  not  enough  of  life  in  all  the  air 

To  stir  the  shadows  or  to  move  the  flow'rs  • 
And  in  the  halo  broods  the  angel  Sleep, 
Woo'd  from  the  bosom  of  the  midnight  deep 
By  her  sweet  sister  Silence,  wed  to  Noon. 

II. 

Held  in  a  soft  suspense  of  summer  light, 

The  gen'rous  fields  with  all  their  bloom  of  wealth 
Bask  in  a  dream  of  Plenty  for  the  years, 

And  breathe  the  languor  of  untroubled  Health. 
Without  a  ripple  stands  the  yellow  wheat, 
Like  the  Broad  Seal  of  God  upon  the  sheet 
Where  Labor's  signature  appeareth  soon. 

in. 

As  printed  staves  of  thankful  Nature's  hymn, 
The  fence  of  rails  a  soothing  grace  devotes, 

With  clinging  vines  for  bass  and  treble  clefs, 

And  wrens  and  robins  here  and  there  for  notes  ;  — 


52  DOLCE    FAR    NIENTE. 

Spread  out  in  bars,  at  equal  distance  met, 

As  though  the  whole  bright  summer  scene  were 

set 
To  the  unutter'd  melody  of  Rest ! 

IV. 

Along  the  hill  in  light  voluptuous  wrapt 

The  daisy  droops  amid  the  staring  grass, 
And  on  the  plain  the  rose  and  lily  wait 
For  Flora's  whispers,  that  no  longer  pass  ; 
While  in  the  shade  the  violet  of  blue 
Finds  in  the  stillness  reigning  nature  through, 
That  which  her  gentle  modesty  loves  best 

v. 

The  mill-wheel  motionless  o'ershades  the  pool, 
'   In  whose  frail  crystal  cups  its  circle  dips  ; 
The  stream,  slow  curling,  wanders  in  the  sun, 
And  drains  his  kisses  with  its  silver  lips  ; 
The  birch  canoe  upon  its  shadow  lies, 
The  pike's  last  bubble  on  the  water  dies, 
The  water-lily  sleeps  upon  her  glass. 

VI. 

Here  let  me  linger,  in  that  waking  sleep 

Whose  dreams  are  all  untinged  with  haunting  dread 
Of  Morning's  finger  on  the  eyelids  press'd, 
To  rouse  the  soul  and  leave  the  vision  dead. 
And  while  deep  sunk  in  this  soft  ecstasy 
I  count  the  pulse  of  Heaven  dreamily, 
Let  all  life's  bitterness  behind  me  pass  ! 


DOLCE    FAR   NIENTE.  53 

VII. 

How  still  each  leaf  of  my  oak  canopy, 
That  holds  a  forest  syllable  at  heart, 
Yet  cannot  stir  enough  in  all  its  veins 

To  give  the  murmur'd  woodland  sentence  start ! 
So  still  —  so  still  all  nature  far  and  near, 
As  though  the  world  had  check'd  its  breath  to 

hear 
An  angel's  message  from  the  distant  skies  ! 

VIII. 

This  one  last  glance  at  earth  —  one,  only  one  — 

To  see,  as  through  a  veil,  the  gentle  face 
Bent  o'er  me  softly,  with  a  timid  love 

That  half  distrusts  the  sleep  which  gives  it  grace. 
The  thought  that  bids  mine  eyelids  half  unclose 
Fades  to  a  dream,  and  out  from  Summer  goes, 
In  the  brown  Autumn  of  her  drooping  eyes. 


OUR  GUIDING  STARS. 

TO  loud  huzzas  our  Flag  ascends, 
As  climbs  a  flame  the  dizzy  mast, 
Till  all  its  burning  glory  bends 

From  where  the  azure  seals  it  fast ; 

And,  pliant  to  the  chainless  winds, 
A  blazing  sheet,  a  lurid  scroll, 

The  Compact  of  the  Stars  it  binds, 
In  fire  that  warms  a  nation's  soul ! 

The  planets  of  its  field  are  set 
In  God's  eternal  blue  sublime, 

Creation's  world-wide  starry  stripe 
Between  the  banner'd  days  of  time. 

Upon  the  sky's  divining  roll, 
In  burning  punctuation  borne, 

They  shape  the  sentence  of  the  night 
That  prophesies  a  cloudless  morn. 

The  waters  free  their  mirrors  are  ; 

And  fair  with  equal  light  they  look 
Upon  the  royal  ocean's  breast, 

And  on  the  humble  mountain  brook. 


OUR   GUIDING   STARS.  55 

Though  each  distinctive  as  the  soul 
Of  some  new  world  not  yet  begun, 

In  bright  career  their  courses  blend 
Round  Liberty's  unchanging  Sun. 

Thus  ever  shine,  ye  Stars,  for  all ! 

And  palsied  be  the  hand  that  harms 
Earth's  pleading  signal  to  the  skies, 

And  Heav'n's  immortal  Coat  of  Arms. 


A   SONG   FOR   THE   UNSUNG. 

NOT  often  man's  nature  revealeth  in  tears 
The  springs  of  affection  o'ergrown  with  his  years  ; 
Not  often  the  rock  of  his  spirit  will  shrink 
To  yield  what  a  world  may  be  dying  to  drink  ; 
Yet  comes  there  to  me,  as  it  ever  will  come, 
Enshrined  in  my  dreams  of  the  altar  at  home, 
One  face  that  I  cry  for  —  so  sweet  when  it  smiled  !  — 
My  Sister,  my  Sister,  you  make  me  a  child. 

As  music  that  falls,  with  no  singer  to  word, 
As  rain  blessing  earth  when  no  thunder  is  heard, 
As  light  that  still  lingers  when  set  is  the  sun, 
As  soft  sounds  that  echo  through  silence  begun ; 
So  cometh  the  trust  of  thy  heart  unto  mine, 
So  answers  my  spirit  the  pleadings  of  thine  ; 
So  speak  for  us  both  to  the  witnessing  skies, 
My  Sister,  my  Sister,  thy  worshipping  eyes. 

My  friend  and  companion  through  years  that  are  gone, 

As  gentle  as  twilight,  as  pure  as  the  dawn, 

The  thought  that  's  an  eagle  while  roaming  world-free 

Is  turn'd  to  a  dove  when  it  nestles  with  thee ; 

And,  folding  its  wings  in  thy  beautiful  truth, 

Renews  on  thy  bosom  its  passionless  youth, 


A    SONG   FOR   THE    UNSUNG.  57 

And  blesses  the  hand  ever  soothing  its  rest  — 
My  Sister,  my  Sister,  my  truest  and  best. 

When  parents  grew  stern  that  a  child  should  annoy, 
How  fondly  you  pled  for  the  passionate  boy  ; 
How  patiently  bearing  what  angels  might  fret, 
To  soothe  me  in  sickness,  I  cannot  forget.    . 
My  life  has  its  record  of  good  and  of  ill, 
With  those  to  applaud  and  to  censure  at  will ; 
But  ever  where  thine  was  the  finger  to  trace, 
My  Sister,  my  Sister,  how  perfect  the  grace  ! 

The  friendship  that  rides  on  the  wave  of  the  world 
Is  mine  while  the  sails  of  my  bark  are  unfurl'd, 
And  wafts  me  along  o'er  a  midsummer  sea 
To  havens  where  Fortune  sits  waiting  for  me ; 
But  O,  should  the  tempest  break  over  my  head, 
What  hands  would  be  lifted,  what  pray'r  would  be  said, 
To  save  from  the  last  falling  stroke  of  the  rod  ? 
My  Sister,  my  Sister,  thine  only  —  to  God. 

O,  call  it  not  Love  that  I  give  unto  thee  ; 

For  love,  like  a  feverish  sun  on  the  sea, 

Is  only  a  blossom  of  light  from  the  seed 

Of  stars  that  were  sown  when  the  night  was  in  need  ; 

A  growth  from  the  darkness  to  dwindle  once  more 

And  break  into  atoms,  then  bloom  as  before, 

An  endless  unrest  ever  changing  above,  — 

My  Sister,  my  Sister,  it  cannot  be  Love. 

But  call  it  a  name  that  if  spoken  in  pray'r 
Would  waft  no  alloy  of  the  earth  through  the  air ; 

3* 


58  A    SONG    FOR    THE    UNSUNG. 

A  name  by  an  impulse  of  reverence  giv'n 
To  something  all  fair  with  the  beauty  of  Heav'n  ; 
A  name  whose  soft  incense  of  truth  shall  impart 
A  fragrance  refined  in  the  dews  of  the  heart. 
So  pure  is  the  feeling,  though  simple  it  be, 
My  Sister,  my  Sister,  I  give  unto  thee. 

'T  is  sweet  to  remember  the  moments  gone  by, 

When  more  was  the  pow'r  in  a  glance  of  thine  eye 

To  hold  me  from  evil  perverting  the  will, 

Than  blows,  that  in  childhood  a  manhood  may  kill. 

And  if  in  the  future  my  destiny  turns 

To  paths  where  the  thorn  is  the  finger  that  spurns, 

Though  others  may  scorn  what  I  seem  unto  them, 

My  Sister,  my  Sister,  thou  wilt  not  condemn. 

For  still,  though  I  leave  thee,  thy  spirit  will  shine 
A  Bethlehem  Star  o'er  the  journey  of  mine, 
And  lead  it  from  perils  where  luxuries  nod 
To  find  in  a  manger  the  glory  of  God. 
While  burneth  a  planet  that  Star  shall  be  there, 
The  rent  in  the  heavens  where  enter'd  a  pray'r, 
When  kneeling  at  even'  thy  form  I  could  see  — 
My  Sister,  my  Sister,  that  pray'r  was  for  me  ! 

If  aught  to  offend  thee  I  do  while  I  live, 
Forgive  me  !  forgive  me  !  and  God  will  forgive  ; 
Not  His  to  withhold  from  the  suppliant's  cry, 
While  thine  is  the  tenderness  watching  His  eye. 
And  as  I  go  down  in  the  valley  of  death, 
Once  more  but  a  child  at  his  earliest  breath, 
My  soul's  dying  impulse  shall  pause  in  its  flight, 
My  Sister,  my  Sister,  to  bid  thee  Good  Night. 


THE   PRISONER  OF  FORTRESS   MONROE. 

(1866.) 

WHERE  ramparts  frown  upon  the  waves 
That  leap  and  crouch  like  hounds  below, 
And  Ocean's  hoary  giant-slaves 
In  sullen  murmurs  surge  their  woe, 
With  face  upon  his  hands  he  sits, 
With  broken  heart  and  wand'ring  wits, 
And  starts  at  ev'ry  gleam  that  flits 
From  the  sea  at  his  window-sill : 
For  the  sound  in  his  ears  is  still 

Andersonville ! 

Andersonville  is  the  word  from  the  sea  to  him, 
There  in  his  cell,  in  the  casemate  lone  and  dim. 

The  sentry's  step  upon  the  walk 

He  hears  ;  but  not  as  mortals  hear  ; 
And  closer  with  it  seems  to  stalk 
A  ghastly  thing  from  off  a  bier  — 
A  something  ever  near  the  door, 
To  enter  once,  and  then  no  more 
Be  visitor  upon  the  floor 
Of  the  Man  it  is  sent  to  kill ! 
And  the  thought  comes  quick  and  chill  — 
Andersonville ! 


6O         THE    PRISONER    OF    FORTRESS    MONROE. 

Andersonville  is  the  shadow  of  Death  to  him, 
There  in  his  cell,  in  the  casemate  lone  and  dim. 

Hour  follows  hour  from  morn  till  night, 
As  grave  on  grave  in  silence  creeps  ; 
And  earth  with  Life's  twin-brother  wakes ; 
And  earth  with  Death's  twin-brother  sleeps  ! 
And  all  in  one  dread  horror  blends, 
That  ne'er  commences,  never  ends  ; 
But  through  his  broken  spirit  send 
With  an  awful  and  vengeful  thrill, 
That  scene  of  his  murderous  will  — 

Andersonville  ! 

Andersonville  is  the  vision  of  Time  to  him, 
There  in  his  cell,  in  the  casemate  lone  and  dim. 

'Twixt  fort  and  sky  the  banner  glows ; 
And  as  the  darkness  wraps  it  round, 
Its  vague  and  stifled  flutter  grows 

The  life-blood  bubbling  from  a  wound ! 

There  !  there  !  again  the  creature  cries 
For  food ;  and,  mad  with  suff'ring,  dies 
By  his  own  hand  before  their  eyes 
Who  have  shared  in  his  ev'ry  ill, 
And  there  they  bend  over  him  still  — 

Andersonville  ! 

Andersonville  is  the  prison  that  maddens  him, 
There  in  his  cell,  in  the  casemate  lone  and  dim. 

The  moon  swims  slowly  o'er  the  walls, 
A  damp,  dead  mirror  of  the  sun  ; 


THE    PRISONER    OF    FORTRESS    MONROE.-        6 1 

And  where  her  light  all  pallid  falls 
The  waters  colder  seem  to  run  ; 

It  pierces  through  the  dungeon  grate, 
To  make  ten  thousand  forms  of  hate 
Grin  ghastlier  from  each  granite  plate 

That  would  armor  him  safe  from  ill ! 

And  the  hiss  in  his  ear  is  shrill  — 
Andersonville ! 

Andersonville  is  the  dream  of  the  night  to  him, 

There  in  his  cell,  in  the  casemate  lone  and  dim. 

Along  the  billow  sweeps  the  gull, 

Not  lonely  while  she  hears  her  wings ; 
And,  lonelier,  in  the  vapor  dull, 
The  lark  unsolitary  sings. 

With  face  upon  his  hands  he  sits, 
With  broken  heart  and  wand'ring  wits, 
And  starts  at  ev'ry  gleam  that  flits 
From  the  sea  at  his  window-sill ;  * 

And  the  word  to  his  soul  is  still 

Andersonville ! 

Andersonville  is  alone  in  the  world  with  him, 
There  in  his  cell,  in  the  casemate  lone  and  dim ! 


COSMO-BELLA. 

THE  roseate  Morning,  with  girdles  of  light, 
Has  lifted  the  hills  from  the  wave  of  the  night, 
And  crown'd  with  a  halo,  and  mantled  in  gray, 
Retires  to  the  mist  and  gives  birth  to  a  day. 

What  bird  shall  be  first  from  his  covert  to  spring, 
And  o'er  the  nativity  earliest  sing  ? 
What  flow'r  shall  be  first,  in  the  valley  below, 
To  breathe  out  her  dew  in  the  coronal  glow  ? 

No  bird  of  the  mountain,  no  rose  of  the  vale, 
Shall  earliest  carol  and  blush  with  the  tale  ; 
For  soft,  through  the  hush  of  God  blessing  the  scene, 
Come  feathery  footfalls,  the  steps  of  a  queen. 

She  comes  !  and  the  purity  lapt  in  the  hour 
Takes  presence  and  form  in  the  beauty  her  dow'r ; 
She  stands  at  her  mirror,  a  hill-dripping  stream, 
And  all  the  round  world  sees  her  smile  in  a  dream. 

Search  not  through  the  lands,  from  the  Poles  to  the 

Zone, 

In  quest  of  the  Beauty  one  nation  may  own  ; 
For  all  the  Globe's  gifts  of  perfection  appear 
In  Beauty's  Ideal,  the  Innocence  here. 


COSMO-BELLA.  63 

The  Sea  hoards  a  gem,  and  the  Sky  garners  rays, 
The  one  is  her  soul,  and  the  others  her  ways  ; 
And  Nature,  adoring,  beholds  in  her  eyes 
The  blue  of  the  sea  in  the  light  of  the  skies.  • 

Her  features,  illumed  with  the  star-beam  of  Peace, 
Are  lined  to  the  Art-worshipp'd  contour  of  Greece  ; 
And  England's  red  roses,  that  grew  in  her  glance, 
Are  blent  on  her  cheek  with  the  lilies  of  France. 

The  bloom  of  Circassia,  the  grace  of  Cathay, 
Her  lips  move  to  life  and  her  form  gives  a  sway ; 
And  white  gleams  her  bosom  through  shadows  of  lawn, 
The  snow  of  the  Alps  in  the  pearl  of  the  dawn. 

The  first  golden  circle  the  Tyrol  to  light, 
Thrown  off  like  a  ring  from  the  finger  of  night, 
Has  crumbled  to  dust  in  a  summery  air, 
And  scatter'd  a  day  in  the  folds  of  her  hair. 

She  stands  with  one  foot  in  a  thought  of  advance, 
A  foot  on  the  velvet  of  roses  to  dance ; 
And,  je well'd  with  glittering  dew,  is  display'd 
The  high-arching  instep  of  Switzerland's  maid. 

Proud  Europe,  soft  Asia,  and  Africa  far, 
She  gathers  your  beauties  wherever  they  are, 
And,  wearing  them  modestly,  blesses  our  sight, 
The  Daughter  of  Morning,  an  Angel  of  light. 


D  I T  H  Y  R  A  M  B  U  S . 

(FROM  THE  GERMAN.) 


T 


VRUST  me  forever, 

Doubt  me,  love,  never, 
While  the  world  rolls. 

What  though  to-day  may  be  dying  in  shadows? 
Morning  shall  rainbow  the  mists  on  the  meadows, 
Aurora  shall  light  them  with  souls ! 

Now  swelleth  the  bosom 
With  rapturous  feeling, 
And  Care  is  forgotten 

In  Heaven's  revealing. 
Worlds  upon  worlds  for  a  moment  like  this, 

With  the  lips  stealing 
Nectar  that  quickens  and  glows  in  a  kiss ! 

Let  the  gods  hear  me ! 
Stay,  ye  gods,  near  me  : 

Heed  ye  my  praise  ? 
Lo  !  I  extol,  with  a  reverence  trembling, 
You,  that  to  banish  the.  spirit's  dissembling 

Open  the  heavenly  spheres  to  my  gaze. 


DITHYRAMBUS.  65 

Such  ecstasy  raises 

Earth's  bitterest  sorrows 
To  glorified  promise 

Of  rosy  to-morrows ; 
Leading  each  heart  through  the  sepulchre's  riight, 

'Mid  transports  and  revel, 
Into  Elysian  temples  of  light. 

Great  gods,  inspire  me  ! 

With  the  flame  fire  me 
Meet  for  thy  bard  — 
That  he  may  soar  to  Olympus  immortal, 
With  Charis,  the  smiling,  embrace  at  the  portal, 

In  Eros  behold  his  reward ! 

I  rise,  I'm  ascending, 

The  world  grows  a  clod  ; 
With  heaven  I  'm  blending, 

The  dream  of  a  god  ! 


BATTLE-NIGHT. 


ON  the  far  borders  of  the  dimming  world 
Gleam  the  last  brands  of  watch-fires,  kindled 

when 

The  hosts  of  day,  retreating,  paused  and  furl'd 
Their  shining  standard  in  the  sea ;  and  then, 
Sullen  and  ready  for  the  strife  again, 
Lit  the  cloud-cities  of  the  yielded  plain 
To  conflagration  vengeful ;  mocking  men 
With  the  flame-eaten  palace,  arch  and  fane, 
Of  whose  red  grandeur,  now,  but  smould'ring  clouds 
remain. 

Already  creep  the  stealthy  scouts  of  Night 
Along  the  shadows  by  the  Ocean  cast, 
With  Midnight  at  its  heart,  against  the  height 
Where  broods  th'  eternal  Mother  of  the  Vast : 
Each  veil'd  in  coming  dreams  of  what  is  past  — 
Yet  dropping  from  their  mantles,  as  they  crawl, 
Bright,  virgin  jewels,  polish'd  by  the  blast, 
And  marking  out  in  kingdoms,  where  they  fall, 
A  sleep-reflected  heritage  for  one  —  for  all. 

Alas  !  the  drowsy  lids  of  yesterday 
Closed  on  a  scene,  that,  like  a  bosom  fair, 


BATTLE-NIGHT.  6/ 

Was  fit  to  gather  down  such  Peace,  and  pray 
That  it  might  never  garner  less  of  care  ; 
But  now,  the  dead  day's  ashes  in  the  air 
Melt  through  a  tainted  twilight  on  the  field,^ 
Where  Peace  sits  mourning,  with  dishevelled  hair 
And  blood-shot  eyes,  o'er  Mercy's  broken  shield  — 
Peace  made  the  slave  of  War ;  Mercy,  of  Death  the 
yield  ! 

Through  the  new  eve  like  a  disorder'd  pall 
Stretches  the  broken  ground,  with  awful  lines 
Of  human  shape  in  ev'ry  rise  and  fall ; 
Here,  the  bow'd  head  in  dreadful  sleep  reclines ; 
There,  a  stout  arm  with  other  arms  intwines ; 
And,  yonder,  mark  the  semblance  of  a  form 
Twisted,  and  wrench'd  in  all  the  mad  designs 

o 

Of  a  young  tree,  made  jester  to  the  storm  : 
Ice  to  the  touch,  that  hand  —  't  will  ne'er  again 
warm ! 

Thousands  on  thousands,  far  and  near  they  lie, 
Lover  and  foe,  pursuer  and  pursued,  — 
Some  with  glazed  eyeballs,  glaring  at  the  sky, 
And  some  —  as  though  with  sudden  grief  imbued 
By  the  last  scene  their  eyes  in  dying  view'd  — 
Prone  with  their  ghastly  faces  to  the  earth  ; 
And  some,  with  life's  grim  smile  in  death  renew'd, 
In  the  death-stare  immortalizing  mirth. 
O  age  without  a  soul,  to  give  such  horrors  birth  ! 

Yonder  the  battery,  all  shatter'd,  lies  ; 

And  here  the  drum,  by  some  wild  weapon  torn  ; 


68  BATTLE-NIGHT. 

And  ev'ry where  the  charger,  half  in  rise, 
Puts  the  poor  dignity  of  man  to  scorn 
And  blends  his  blood  with  that  of  noblest  born. 
Join'd  in  the  grim  democracy  of  war, 
Rider  and  horse,  soldier,  and  sword  once  worn, 
Find  no  degrees  when  the  fierce  battle  o'er 
Leaves  them  in  equal  graves  —  slain,  broken,  used  no 
more. 

The  burly  Guardsman,  at  his  captain's  feet, 
Still  the  bent  musket  holds,  with  iron  grip, 
As  though  more  eager  yet  the  foe  to  meet  — 
Because  blood  gloves  the  hand  upon  his  hip ; 
And,  in  the  rigid  tension  of  his  lip, 
Lurks  the  one  sentence  God  alone  may  speak. 
Soldier,  thy  bravery  hath  made  a  slip, 
And  borne  thee  with  it  where  no  foemen  seek 
To  test  the  strength  once  thine  —  the  strength  now 
less  than  weak. 

And  thou,  poor  Stripling !  with  the  girlish  hair, 
And  hand  so  white  around  the  pond'rous  hilt, 
It  seems  like  Beauty,  taken  in  a  snare,  — 
What  dost  thou  here,  with  death  around  thee  built 
In  such  close  prison,  for  the  Nation's  guilt  ? 
O,  for  a  mother's  hope  —  a  sister's  dream  — 
That  died  in  darkness,  when  the  blood  was  spilt 
In  whose  warm  current  dwelt  the  living  beam 
God  made  to  brighten  Age,  with  its  own  youth's  re 
deem. 

Gone  are  the  conq'ring  banners  of  the  day  — 
Hush'd  the  grand  roar  of  the  artillery  — 


BATTLE-NIGHT.  69 

And  perish'd  all  the  pomp  and  brave  display 
That  mask'd  the  Battle  in  mad  revelry ! 
Gone  is  the  smoke  that  hid  the  battery ; 
And  of  the  with'ring  lightning-fire  that  bloom'd 
Upon  a  field  of  bayonets  for  thee, 
And  mark'd  thee,  Soldier,  with  the  ones  it  doorn'd, 
These  ashes  poor  remain  —  to  blend,  to  be  entomb'd. 

Draw,  gentle  Night,  thy  curtains  closer  round, 
And  fly,  ye  clouds,  to  hide  the  rising  moon 
From  the  white  faces  staring  from  the  ground. 
The  morning  light  will  come,  alas  !  too  soon, 
That  its  fair  beam  must  cancel  all  the  boon 
Of  countless  hearts,  to  whom  the  Night  is  hope 
For  blest  escape  of  loved  ones,  who,  at  noon, 
Reel'd  in  the  charge,  and  fell  upon  the  slope. 
Leave  them  one  feeble  stay,  with  their  despair  to  cope. 

To-morrow  all  the  land,  from  North  to  South, 
May  ring  with  echoes  of  a  Battle  won  ; 
The  rose  may  blossom  at  the  cannon's  mouth, 
And  trumpet  honors  unto  Peace  be  done ; 
But,  from  his  ramparts,  will  the  rising  Sun 
See  where  the  carrion  crows  expectant  flit ; 
And  while  to  crown  her,  worlds  have  just  begun, 
The  Nation,  sick  at  heart  rememb'ring  it, 
Shall,  at  her  lonely  hearth,  in  dust  and  ashes  sit. 


SUMMER. 

THE  fickle  year  is  in  its  golden  prime ; 
The  world  is  dreaming  in  a  hazy  lustre, 
And  round  the  altars  of  our  Summer  clime, 
The  blushing  roses  cluster. 

Upon  the  mountain  dwells  impassion'd  light, 
And  in  the  valley  sleeps  a  shade  depressing, 

While  fields  of  waving  wealth  enchant  the  sight, 
Like  gold  of  God's  own  blessing. 

The  ploughman  rests  beneath  the  wayside  tree, 
The  stream  curls  slowly  round  the  hoofs  of  cattle  ; 

And  o'er  the  meadow  floats  the  droning  bee, 
Fresh  from  his  flow'ry  battle. 

Soft  through  the  Southern  meshes  of  the  vine, 
I  hear  the  birds  unto  each  other  calling  ; 

And  in  the  casket  of  the  eglantine 
The  tropic  dews  are  falling. 

Far  in  trie  distance  rolls  the  sluggish  sea, 
With  not  enough  of  life  in  all  its  breathing 

To  bid  the  sail  from  its  rude  bonds  go  free, 
And  spurn  its  hempen  wreathing. 


SUMMER.  /I 

On  all  there  rests  a  halo  and  a  hush, 
The  spell  of  poesy  is  on  the  blossom, 

And  Nature's  spirit  slumbers  in  a  blush, 
Caught  from  high  Heaven's  bosom. 

The  Past  and  Future  blend  in  one  sweet  sleep, 
The  world  *s  a  dream,  and  Care  a  hidden  mummer, 

Whose  tears,  however  sadly  he  may  weep, 
Are  but  the  dews  of  Summer. 


THE    GENERAL'S    WIFE. 

SHE  hears  the  thunder  of  his  guns 
Deep-crashing  o'er  the  lowland  farms, 
And  all  the  ardor  of  her  soul 

Goes  forth  to  greet  her  lord  in  arms. 

Though  sways  the  balance  of  the  strife, 
From  losses  near,  to  gains  afar, 

Her  Faith  shines  steadfast  on  his  head, 
As  on  the  ship  the  Polar  Star. 

Let  brother  question  brother's  might, 
And  man's  distrust  of  man  be  rife, 

'T  is  not  in  Woman's  heart  to  doubt 
The  pow'r  that  won  and  rules  the  wife. 

Through  all  the  battle's  storm  of  sounds, 
The  crash  of  death,  the  host's  rejoice, 

In  that,  she  hears  his  sabre-stroke, 
In  this,  his  own  triumphant  voice. 

And  if  for  grace  the  foeman  bend, 
Though  ev'ry  lip  with  fury  foam, 


THE    GENERAL'S    WIFE. 

His  hand  falls  softly  through  her  pray'r, 
As  on  his  Darling's  head  at  home. 

So,  should  the  land  refuse  to  praise, 
An  ocean  shall  his  glory  be,  — 

A  Hope  as  tireless  as  the  wave, 
A  love  as  boundless  as  the  sea. 


73 


THE    MAN    OF    FEELING. 

ALAS  !  for  him  whose  simple  soul, 
A  garden  cherish'd  by  the  sun, 
Lies  open  to  the  public  way, 
For  ev'ry  foot  to  tread  upon. 

And  whether  in  a  wanton  mood, 

Or  by  a  selfish  purpose  led, 
Each  passer  tramples  on  the  verge 

Where  all  his  tend'rest  feelings  spread. 

And  then  his  wounded  nature  feels  — 
What  his  alone  can  understand, 

The  flow'r  that 's  broken  by  the  heel, 
Can  ne'er  be  mended  by  the  hand. 

From  gentle  instinct  taught  to  love 
The  meanest  creature  of  his  race, 

He  took  his  image  of  the  World 
When  God  was  shining  in  his  face  ; 

Nor  dream'd  that  earth  could  wear  a  Cross, 
Save,  as  it  fell,  while  glory  blazed, 

The  noonday  Shadow  of  a  Christ, 
With  arms  in  Benediction  raised. 


THE    MAN    OF    FEELING.  75 

And  not  'till  bleeding  from  the  world, 
He  learns  the  heartless  world  it  is  ; 

That  ruder  souls  the  gentler  crush, 
And  all  are  rude  to  such  as  his. 

Though  turning  to  his  fellow-men, 
With  hope  in  each  a  friend  to  meet, 

He  stands  as  lonely  as  a  tree 
Upon  a  city's  stony  street ; 

For,  ever  to  the  open  hand, 

The  perfect  trust,  the  guileless  air, 

Not  even  Charity  is  kind, 

And  Manhood  doubts  a  Man  is  there. 

Then,  shrinking  stricken  to  himself, 

With  silent  grieving  desolate, 
He  lives  a  coward  to  the  wind, 

And  fears  the  things  he  cannot  hate. 

There  is  a  sinking  of  his  soul, 
A  sudden  shock  of  age  and  care  ; 

As  one  who  in  a  mirror  sees 

The  first  gray  streaking  of  his  hair. 

And  growing  tremulous  with  dread 
Of  what  one  word,  one  look,  may  be, 

He  dares  not  seek  to  make  a  friend, 
Lest  love  should  die  of  jealousy. 

Thus,  friendless  and  alone  he  goes, 
To  none  a  prize,  to  all  a  prey ; 


76  THE    MAN    OF    FEELING. 

Like  water  dripping  on  a  rock, 
By  trifles  wears  his  life  away. 

And  yet  there  is  an  inward  light 

To  keep  his  soul  from  growing  dark, 

Through  which  his  nature's  incense  breaks,. 
Like  music  breaking  from  the  lark; 

For,  though  the  world  sweeps  coldly  by, 
Or  pauses  but  to  cast  a  dart, 

There  's  something  cannot  chill  nor  die,  — 
His  grand  simplicity  of  heart. 


JOHN   BROWN. 

GOD  holds  His  scales  in  a  poise  between 
The  deed  Unjust  and  the  end  Unseen, 
And  the  sparrow's  fall  in  the  one  is  weigh'd 
By  the  Lord's  own  Hand  in  the  other  laid. 

Where  leads  the  path  to  our  Sunset  gate, 
And  flow'rs  the  heart  of  a  new-born  State, 
Are  the  hopes  of  an  old  man's  waning  years, 
'Neath  the  headstones  worn  by  an  old  man's  tears. 

When  sinks  the  sun  in  the  prairie  West, 
His  last  red  ray  is  the  headstone's  crest ; 
And  the  mounds  he  laves  in  a  crimson  flood 
Are  a  Soldier's  pay  in  the  coin  of  blood ! 

Do  ye  ask  who  rear'd  those  headstones  there, 
And  plaited  thorns  for  a  sire's  gray  hair  ? 
And  by  whom  was  the  Land's  great  debt  thus  paid 
To  the  Soldier  old,  in  the  graves  they  made  ? 

Shrink,  Pity !  shrink,  at  the  question  dire ; 
And,  Honor,  burn  in  a  blush  of  fire ! 
Turn,  God  of  the  Just,  from  the  page  thine  eyes, 
Or  the  Sin,  till  the  Judgment,  never  dies ! 


78  JOHN    BROWN. 

They  shared  the  Land  he  had  fought  to  save, 
From  a  foreign  foe  that  cross'd  the  wave, 
When  he  struck  for  the  Weak  against  the  Strong 
And  march'd  to  a  strife  as  his  whole  life  long. 

They  came  of  the  clime  whose  soft  warm  breath 
Is  earth's  fair  youth,  and  a  life  in  death ; 
Where  the  Summer  chains  but  a  Spring  to  Spring, 
And  the  songs  of  birds  through  the  whole  year  ring ; 

Where  falling  leaves  are  the  cups  that  grew 

To  catch  the  spray  of  the  new  leaf's  dew, 

And  the  winds  through  the  blossom'd  depths  that  creep 

Are  the  sighs  of  Time  in  a  noonday  sleep. 

But  lurk'd  a  taint  in  the  clime  so  blest, 

Like  serpent  coil'd  in  a  ring-dove's  nest, 

And  the  hateful  sight  to  the  eye  it  gave, 

Was  the  brand  of  chains  on  a  low-brow'd  Slave ! 

The  Soldier  old,  at  his  sentry-post, 

Where  the  sun's  last  trail  of  light  is  lost, 

Was  shamed  with  the  shame  of  the  Land  he  loved, 

And  the  old,  old  pride  in  his  bosom  moved. 

He  cried  to  the  land,  Beware,  Beware 
The  symbol'd  Curse  in  the  Bondman  there ! 
And  a  prophet's  soul  in  the  hour  came  down 
To  be  heard  in  the  voice  of  old  John  Brown. 

He  cried  :  and  the  ingrate  answer  came 
In  words  of  lead  from  a  tongue  of  flame ; 


JOHN    BROWN.  79 

And  dyed  was  his  hearth  in  the  blood  of  kin, 
Where  his  dear  ones  fell  for  the  Nation's  Sin ! 

O  matchless  deed !  that  a  fiend  might  scorn  ; 
O  deed  of  shame !  for  a  world  to  mourn  ; 
'T  was  a  Soldier's  pay  in  his  blood  most  dear, 
And  a  land  to  mock  at  a  Father's  tear ! 

Is  't  strange  that  the  tranquil  soul  of  age 
Was  turn'd  to  strife  in  a  madman's  rage  ? 
Is  it  strange  that  the  cry  of  blood  did  seem 
Like  the  call  of  drums  in  a  soldier's  dream  ? 

Is  't  strange  the  clank  of  the  Bondman's  chain 
Should  drive  the  Wrong  to  the  old  man's  brain, 
To  flame  in  his  heart  to  a  santon's  zeal, 
And  his  weak  arm  mate  to  the  vengeful  steel  ? 

The  bane  of  Wrong  to  its  depth  had  gone, 
The  sword  of  Right  from  its  sheath  was  drawn  ; 
But  the  Slave  in  the  swamp  heard  not  his  cry, 
And  the  old  man  had  arm'd  him  but  to  die. 

Go  call  him  Mad,  that  he  did  not  quail 
When  broke  his  blade  on  the  unblest  mail  : 
Ye  may  call  him  mad,  that  he  struck  alone, 
That  he  made  of  the  land's  dark  Curse  his  own  ; 

But  the  Eye  of  God  look'd  down  and  saw 

A  just  life  lost  by  an  unjust  law  ; 

And  black  was  the  day  with  the  Lord's  own  frown 

When  the  Southern  Cross  was  a  martyr's  Crown ! 


8O  JOHN    BROWN. 

Apostate  clime  !  from  the  blood  then  shed 

Was  a  cry  for  vengeance  on  your  head, 

That  should  weigh  you  down  'neath  the  falling  rod 

When  your  red  right  hand  should  be  stretch'd  to  God. 

Behold  the  price  of  the  life  you  took : 
At  its  last  great  gasp  a  whole  world  shook ; 
And  the  despot  deed  that  could  one  heart  break, 
From  their  slavish  sleep  made  a  million  wake  ! 

Not  all  alone  did  the  victim  fall 
By  the  deed  that  brought  him  to  your  thrall ; 
In  the  old  man's  wrong  was  a  Nation's  part, 
And  you  struck  your  blow  at  a  Nation's  heart ! 

When  the  freemen-host  was  at  your  door, 

A  Voice  went  forth  with  a  stern  "  No  more  !  " 

To  the  Curse  of  the  Land,  whose  swift  redeem 

Was  the  thought  that  had  vision'd  John  Brown's  dream. 

To  the  Country's  Wrong,  the  Country's  stain, 
It  proved  as  the  scythe  to  yielding  grain  ; 
And  the  pow'r  of  the  strong  to  spread  it  forth 
Was  the  arm  and  the  soul  of  the  chainless  North. 

From  the  East  and  West  and  North  they  came, 
In  sweeping  might  of  a  prairie  flame, 
With  a  viewless  form  for  their  unknown  guide,  — 
A  form  that  was  born  when  the  Old  Man  died ! 

The  Soldier  old  in  his  grave  may  rest 
Beside  his  dead  in  the  free-born  West ; 


JOHN    BROWN.  8l 

But  a  red  ray  falls  on  the  headstones  there, 
Like  the  Lord's  reply  to  a  martyr's  pray'r. 

He  may  sleep  in  peace  'neath  greenwood  pall, 
For  the  land's  great  heart  hath  heard  his  call ; 
And  a  people's  Will  and  a  people's  Might, 
In  his  name  they  have  slain  the  Wrong  for  Right. 

He  nobly  dies  for  his  own  dear  Land 
Who  falls  by  the  foreign  foeman's  brand ; 
But  a  nobler  rank'd  with  her  martyrs  he 
When  't  is  o'er  Herself  is  her  Victory. 

The  Honor  saved  unto  those  who  live 

Is  gauge  of  the  Honor  death  can  give 

To  the  life  laid  down  in  the  hangman's  cords, 

Or  the  life  blown  out  in  a  wind  of  swords. 

Not  all  in  vain  is  the  lesson  taught  — 
A  great  soul's  Dream  is  the  world's  New  Thought ; 
And  the  Scaffold  mark'd  with  a  death  sublime 
Is  the  Throne  ordain'd  for  the  coming  time ! 


THE  FALLS. 


D 


IRQ  PS  of  water,— 

Limpid  water ! 
Sparkling,  darkling,  steeping,  creeping, 
Through  the  grassy  lattice  peeping, 
Like  the  royal  elfin's  eyes, 
When  on  sever'd  leaf  he  lies  ; 
Trickling  on  in  blending  balls,, 

Flowing, 

Going, 
With  a  murmur,  to  the  Falls. 

n. 

Rills  of  water,  — 

Childish  water ! 

Shiv'ring,  quiv'ring,  straying,  playing, 
Where  the  sober  stones  are  staying ; 
Rocking  lilies  up  and  down, 
Bearing  many  a  foamy  crown, 
Through  the  lonely  woodland  halls  ; 

Sliding, 

Gliding, 
Far  away  to  join  the  Falls. 


THE    FALLS.  83 

III. 

Sheets  of  water,  — 

Laughing  water ! 

Hissing,  kissing,  wrinkling,  twinkling, 
With  a  clear,  melodious  tinkling, 
Deep  reflecting  banner  clouds, 
Furl'd  above,  like  vessel  shrouds 
When  the  shadow  on  them  crawls  ; 

Tossing, 

Crossing, 
To  the  music  of  the  Falls. 

IV. 

Folds  of  water,  — 

Crystal  water ! 

Dashing,  splashing,  whirling,  curling, 
Mistral  standard  wide  unfurling, 
In  a  charge  adown  the  hill. 
Where  the  rocks  are  lying  still, 
In  their  moss-incrusted  stalls, 

Jutting, 

Cutting 
Liquid  ribbons  for  the  Falls. 

v. 

Streams  of  water,  — 

Rushing  water  ! 

Roaring,  pouring,  gleaming,  streaming, 
Like  a  mighty  river  dreaming 
Of  a  tempest  on  the  sea, 
Sweeping  down  in  midnight  glee 


84  THE    FALLS. 

From  the  crested  ocean  walls ; 

Boiling, 

Toiling, 
To  the  volume  of  the  Falls. 

VI. 

Floods  of  water,  — 

Surging  water  ! 

Moaning,  groaning,  wailing,  railing, 
While  the  ancient  tree  is  failing, 
Like  a  straying  soldier  lost, 
Bending  to  an  armed  host ; 
Sounding  martial  bugle-calls, 

Gushing, 

Rushing 
To  the  battle  of  the  Falls. 


Hosts  of  water,  — 

Madden'd  water ! 

Rumbling,  tumbling,  sweeping,  leaping, 
Carnival  of  rivers  keeping, 
Breaking,  with  resistless  might, 
From  the  cloud-surrounded  height, 
Form'd  in  sinking  crystal  walls  ; 

Wreathing, 

Seething, 
With  the  thunder  of  the  Falls. 

VIII. 

Veils  of  water,  — 
Tinted  water ! 


THE    FALLS.  85 

Weaving,  cleaving,  vining,  twining, 
All  a  magic  arch  designing, 
Painted  with  the  glowing  dyes, 
Of  Italia's  ev'ning  skies, 
And  of  Fairies'  em'rald  palls  j 

Blending, 

Bending, 
In  a  bow  across  the  Falls. 


LEONORE. 

I  SAW  her  in  the  bright  saloon, 
As  I  had  seen  before 
The  proudest  women  of  the  land, 

But  none  like  Leonore  ; 
So  wrapt  in  living  poetry 
Was  ev'ry  grace  she  wore. 

The  pure  camellias  in  her  hair 
Were  not  so  fair  as  she  ; 

And  in  the  roses  of  her  cheeks 
My  eager  eyes  could  see 

The  banners  of  a  regal  pride, 
That  said  :  Come,  worship  me  ! 

The  jewels  on  her  brow  of  snow, 
Beneath  the  chandeliers, 

Seem'd  like  the  record  of  a  life 
Inscribed  in  frozen  tears 

Upon  a  marble  temple's  front, 
With  gold  to  link  the  years. 

I  heard  the  rustling  of  a  robe, 
Like  leaves  before  the  rain, 


LEONORE.  87 

And  throngs  roll'd  back  on  either  side, 

Like  waves  upon  the  main 
When  some  mermaiden  walks  at  night, 

With  Tritons  in  her  train. 

And  then  a  light,  familiar  step 

Prophetic  fancy  heard, 
As  gentle  in  its  airy  fall 

As  that  of  woodland  bird  ; 
Yet  ev'ry  tap  upon  the  floor 

Was  an  unspoken  word! 

I  saw  a  smile  divide  the  lips 

That  oft  had  honor'd  mine  ; 
But  there  was  something  in  the  smile 

My  heart  could  not  define ; 
So  superficial  was  its  beam, 

And  yet  so  near  divine. 

She  spoke,  but  in  an  alter'd  tone 

From  that  I  once  had  known 
When  she,  in  other  robes  than  these, 

Had  smiled  on  me  alone, 
And  whisper'd,  O,  so  tenderly ! 

That  she  was  all  my  own. 

We  parted,  e'en  as  strangers  part 

Upon  a  foreign  shore, 
When  each  is  to  the  other  dead, 

As  they  had  been  before 
The  paths  of  their  existence  met, 

To  meet  again  no  more. 


88  LEONORE. 

I  saw  her  once  again  that  night, 
When  one  was  called  to  sing 

A  ballad  of  the  olden  time, 
Of  wooing  and  a  ring, 

And  of  a  bride  unsullied  turn'd 
Into  a  guilty  thing. 

0  Leonore  !  my  ling'ring  hope 
Was  blighted  with  the  tear 

That  wash'd  thy  fatal  pride  away, 
And  roll'd,  as  thou  didst  hear 

A  father's  hopeless  sorrows  borne 
In  music  to  thine  ear. 

And  all  my  love  was  banish'd  then, 
But  pity  took  its  place ; 

For  in  the  silent  agony 
Reflected  in  thy  face 

1  saw,  beneath  the  badge  of  shame, 
An  old,  familiar  grace. 


THE   MIRROR. 

"  Inspicere  tanquam  in  speculum,  in  vitas  omnium  jubeo." 

SPEAK !  thou  pale  and  staring  Phantom, 
From  the  picture  in  the  glass ; 
Now  is  the  prophetic  moment, 
Tell  me  what  shall  come  to  pass ! 

Thou  art  looking  to  the  future 
With  those  sunken  eyes  of  thine, 

And  the  fire  reflected  in  them 
Kindles  on  a  distant  shrine. 

From  the  valley  of  the  Present, 

Rank  with  unavailing  tears, 
Is  there  not  an  upward  passage, 

Paved  with  future  years  on  years  ? 

Leading  upward  o'er  the  mountain 

In  whose  shade  I  wander  now  ? 
Leading  upward,  leading  onward 

To  the  Temple  on  its  brow  ? 

Tell  me,  silent  seer,  I  pray  thee, 

Is  there  not  a  pow'r  sublime, 
That  can  make  a  yearning  mortal 

Rise  superior  to  his  time  ? 


THE    MIRROR. 

Must  the  spectres  of  our  sorrows, 

Real  in  the  bitter  Past, 
Keep  so  near  us  in  the  present 

That  their  chill  is  forward  cast  ? 

Can  the  mem'ry  of  a  harsher 
Note  upon  the  spirit's  strings 

Drown  the  music  of  the  Heaven 
Deathless  aspiration  brings  ? 

Can  a  chain  of  cold  denials, 
Growing  greater  as  they  pass, 

Fetter  down  a  soul  forever  ? 

Speak  !  thou  Phantom  of  the  glass. 

Must  the  naked  soul  be  measured 
By  a  standard  rear'd  of  pelf  ? 

Ope  those  mocking  lips  and  tell  me, 
O  my  torturing  Second  Self! 

Thou  art  silent  as  the  marble 

Bearing  many  a  sculptured  name, 

Once  of  those  who  ask'd  the  question, 
Dying  ere  their  answers  came  ; 

But  a  shadow  thin,  uncertain, 
All  thy  features  plays  about, 

And  within  thine  eyes  reflected 
Is  the  torture  of  a  Doubt ! 

Get  thee  gone,  thou  evil  prophet! 
Mine  shall  be  a  nobler  lot 


THE    MIRROR. 

Than  thy  coward  look  would  make  it ; 
Get  thee  gone,  and  mock  me  not ! 

Vain  the  words.     That  mocking  Phantom 

Evermore  will  linger  there, 
Chilling  all  my  mortal  being 

With  its  cold  and  Doubting  stare ; 

Ever  near  me,  right  before  me 
While  I  pause  and  when  I  pass ; 

And,  howe'er  I  strive  to  shun  it, 
All  the  world  is  still  its  glass. 


THE   BOATSWAIN'S   CALL. 

r  |  ^HE  lights  upon  the  river's  brink 

JL       In  constellation  bright, 
Are  winking  down  upon  the  tide 

That  twinkles  through  the  night, 
When  in  a  gayly  dancing  skiff 

The  boatswain  leaves  his  ship, 
And  as  his  oars  a  moment  cease 
Within  the  flood  to  dip, 

He  winds  his  call, 

The  boatswain's  cheery  call. 

A  maiden  stands  upon  the  shore, 

Where  land  and  ocean  meet, 
And  breakers  cast  their  pearly  gifts 

In  homage  at  her  feet ; 
While  through  the  causeway  of  the  night 

She  gazes  o'er  the  sea, 
To  where  a  stately  frigate  rides 

In  lonely  majesty, 

And  waits  the  call, 

The  gallant  boatswain's  call. 

"  O,  tarry  not,  my  boatswain  bold," 
Her  parted  lips  would  say ; 


THE   BOATSWAIN'S    CALL.  93 

But  when  the  heart  is  vex'd  with  doubt, 

The  soul  can  only  pray  • 
And  sorely  doubtful  is  the  maid, 

Till  on  her  ear  there  falls 
The  music  of  the  merriest, 
The  clearest,  best  of  calls,  — 
A  winding  call, 
Her  faithful  boatswain's  call. 


A  shining  keel  is  on  the  sand, 

The  oars  are  laid  aside, 
And  to  the  shore  the  sailor  leaps 

To  greet  his  chosen  bride  ; 
His  arms  about  her  waist  are  thrown, 

And  through  her  rosy  lips 
He  breathes  a  dainty  boatswain's  call, 

Though  not  the  call  of  ships ; 
But  Cupid's  call, 
The  boatswain  Cupid's  call. 


And  when  the  moon  has  drawn  a  path 

Of  light  upon  the  sea, 
A  skiff  is  floating  o'er  the  deep, 

To  where  a  frigate  free 
Is  nestled  in  the  ocean's  breast, 

With  all  her  canvas  furl'd ; 
Though  ere  the  morn  makes  Hesper  fade 

Upon  a  waking  world, 

"  Make  sail,  men,  all  I " 

Will  round  the  boatswain's  call. 


94  THE    BOATSWAIN'S    CALL. 

A  shadow  follows  in  her  wake, 

And  through  its  depths  is  seen 
The  figure  of  a  widow'd  wife 

Upon  the  shore  of  green  ; 
And  ever  as  the  tempest  moans 

Above  the  mocking  wave, 
A  sound  is  wafted  to  her  ears 

From  out  a  moving  grave,  — 
A  boatswain's  call, 
A  ghostly  boatswain's  call. 


THE   MIDNIGHT   WATCH. 

SOLDIER,  soldier,  wan  and  gray, 
Standing  there  so  very  still, 
On  the  outpost  looking  South, 
What  is  there  to-night  to  kill  ? 

Through  the  mist,  that  rises  thick 
From  the  noisome  marsh  around, 

I  can  see  thee  like  a  shade 

Cast  from  something  underground. 

And  I  know  that  thou  art  old, 
For  thy  features,  sharp  and  thin, 

Cut  their  lines  upon  the  shroud 
Damply  folding  thee  within. 

Fit  art  thou  to  watch  and  guard 
O'er  the  brake  and  o'er  the  bog ; 

By  the  glitter  of  thine  eyes 

Thou  canst  pierce  a  thicker  fog. 

Tell  me,  soldier  grim  and  old, 
If  thy  tongue  is  free  to  say, 

What  thou  seest,  looking  South 
In  that  still  and  staring  way  ? 


96  THE   MIDNIGHT   WATCH. 

Yonderward  the  fires  may  glow 
Of  a  score  of  rebel  camps  ; 

But  tbou  canst  not  see  their  lights, 
Through  the  chilling  dews  and  damps. 

Silent  still,  and  motionless  ? 

Get  thee  to  the  tents  behind, 
Where  the  flag  for  which  we  fight 

Plays  a  foot-ball  to  the  wind. 

Get  thee  to  the  bankments  high, 
Where  a  thousand  cannon  sleep, 

While  the  call  that  bids  them  wake 
Bids  a  score  of  millions  weep. 

Thou  shalt  find  an  army  there, 
Working  out  the  statesman's  plots, 

While  a  poison  banes  the  land, 
And  a  noble  nation  rots. 

Thou  shalt  find  a  soldier-host 
Tied  and  rooted  to  its  place, 

Like  a  woman  cow'd  and  dumb, 
Staring  Treason  in  the  face. 

Dost  thou  hear  me  ?     Speak,  or  move  ! 

And  if  thou  would'st  pass  the  line, 
Give  the  password  of  the  night,  — 

Halt !  and  give  the  countersign. 

God  of  Heaven  !  what  is  this 
Sounding  through  the  frosty  air, 


THE    MIDNIGHT   WATCH. 

In  a  cadence  stern  and  slow, 
From  the  figure  looming  there  ? 

"  Sentry,  thou  hast  spoken  well,"  - 

Through  the  mist  the  answer  came,  — 

"  I  am  wrinkled,  grim,  and  old, 

May'st  thou  live  to  be  the  same ! 

"  Thou  art  here  to  keep  a  watch 
Over  prowlers  coming  nigh  ; 
I  can  show  thee,  looking  South, 
What  is  hidden  from  thine  eye. 

"  Here,  the  loyal  armies  sleep ; 

There,  the  foe  awaits  them  all ; 
Who  can  tell  before  the  time 

Which  shall  triumph,  which  shall  fall  ? 

"  O,  but  war 's  a  royal  game, 

Here  a  move  and  there  a  pause ; 
Little  recks  the  dazzled  world 
What  may  be  the  winner's  cause. 

"  In  the  roar  of  sweating  guns, 

In  the  crash  of  sabres  cross'd, 
Wisdom  dwindles  to  a  fife, 
Justice  in  the  smoke  is  lost. 

"  But  there  is  a-mightier  blow 

Than  the  rain  :>f  lead  and  steel, 
Falling  from  a  heavier  hand 

Than  the  one  the  vanquish'd  feel. 
5  G 


98  THE    MIDNIGHT    WATCH. 

"  Let  the  armies  of  the  North 

Rest  them  thus  for  longer  night ; 
Not  with  them  the  issue  lies 

'Twixt  the  pow'rs  of  Wrong  and  Right. 

"  Through  the  fog  that  wraps  us  round 

I  can  see  as  with  a  glass, 
Far  beyond  the  rebel  hosts, 

Fires  that  cluster,  pause,  and  pass. 

"  From  the  wayside  and  the  wood, 

From  the  cabin  and  the  swamp, 
Crawl  the  harbingers  of  blood, 

Black  as  night,  with  torch  and  lamp. 

"  Now  they  blend  in  one  dense  throng  ; 

Hark  !  they  -whisper,  as  in  ire,  — 
Catch  the  word  before  it  dies,  — 
'Hear  the  horrid  murmur,  —  '  Fire  ! ' 

"  Mothers,  with  your  babes  at  rest, 

Maidens  in  your  dreaming-land,  — 
Brothers,  children,  —  wake  ye  all ! 
The  Avenger  is  at  hand. 

"  Born  by  thousands  in  a  flash, 

Angry  flames  bescourge  the  air, 
And  the  howlings  of  the  blacks 
Fan  them  to  a  fiercer  glare. 

"  Crash  the  windows,  burst  the  doors, 
Let  the  helpless  call  for  aid  ; 


THE    MIDNIGHT    WATCH.  99 

From  the  hell  within  they  rush 
On  the  negro's  reeking  blade. 


*&• 


"  Through  the  flaming  doorway  arch, 
Half-dress'd  women  frantic  dart ; 
Demon  !  spare  that  kneeling  girl  — 
God  !  the  knife  is  in  her  heart. 

"  By  his  hair  so  thin  and  gray 

Forth  they  drag  the  aged  sire  ; 
First,  a  stab  to  stop  his  pray'r,  — • 
jHurl  him  back  into  the  fire. 

"  What  !  a  child,  a  mother's  pride, 

Crying  shrilly  with  affright  ! 
Dash  the  axe  upon  her  skull, 
Show  no  mercy,  —  she  is  White. 

"  Louder,  louder  roars  the  flame, 

Blotting  out  the  Southern  home ; 
Fainter  grow  the  dying  shrieks, 
Fiercer  cries  of  vengeance  come. 

"  Turn,  ye  armies,  where  ye  stand, 

Glaring  in  each  other's  eyes  ; 
While  ye  halt,  a  cause  is  won  ; 
While  ye  wait,  a  despot  dies. 

'  Greater  vict'ry  has  been  gain'd 

Than  the  longest  sword  secures, 

And  the  Wrong  has  been  wash'd  out 

With  a  purer  blood  than  yours." 


IOO  THE    MIDNIGHT    WATCH. 

Soldier,  by  my  mother's  pray'r  ! 

Thou  dost  act  a  demon's  part ; 
Tell  me,  ere  I  strike  thee  dead, 

Whence  thou  comest,  who  thou  art  ? 

Back  !  I  will  not  let  thee  pass,  — 
Silent  still  thou  comest  on  !  — 

Soldier,  soldier,  where  art  thou  ? 
Vanish'd,  —  like  a  shadow  gone  ! 


THE   ROMANCE   OF   THE   OLD. 

THOUGH  bends  the  hoary  head  with  years 
In  reverential  grace, 
As  bowing  meekly  unto  God 
When  nearest  to  His  face  ; 
Yet  lives  there  something  of  the  child, 

One  spark  amid  the  cold, 
To  brighten  with  a  gleam  of  youth 
The  Romance  of  the  Old. 


Not  all  the  throng  of  worldly  cares 

That  sadden  life's  decline, 
Can  leave  the  human  heart  without 

Some  one  Ideal's  shrine  ; 
For  if  Realities  have  proved 

What  childhood  ne'er  foretold, 
Still  clings  the  fiction's  charm  about 

The  Romance  of  the  Old. 


O  lover,  in  thy  blushing  pride, 
O  sweetheart,  in  thy  walks, 

Turn  not  in  angry  haste  away 
Because  an  old  man  talks  ; 


IOJ2  '  :  TREr  ROMANCE    OF    THE    OLD. 

But  think  the  twinkle  of  his  eye, 

O'er  jokes  so  often  doled, 
Reflects  thine  own  romance  within 

The  Romance  of  the  Old. 

The  hand  that  hangs  the  Christmas  Tree 

With  quaint,  ingenious  toys, 
May  lack  the  whiteness  of  the  girl's, 

The  quickness  of  the  boy's  ; 
Yet  in  the  loving  heart  that  bids 

Such  fruit  the  leaves  infold, 
Are  children's  dreams,  renew'd,  to  guide 

The  Romance  of  the  Old. 

I  saw  returning  from  a  church 

A  fond  and  happy  pair  -} 
And  He  with  look  and  step  elate, 

And  She  with  modest  air  : 
Behind  them  came  two  stooping  forms 

As  happy  ;  —  but,  behold  ! 
They  wept ;  for  weeping  marketh  oft 

The  Romance  of  the  Old  ! 

To  manhood  in  its  hardy  prime 

And  womanhood  the  young, 
T  is  given  perfect  joy  to  show 

By  music  from  the  tongue  ; 
But  tears  refine  the  wither'd  cheek 

Where  many  a  tear  hath  roll'd, 
When  tenderness  through  pleasure  thrills 

The  Romance  of  the  Old. 


THE    ROMANCE    OF    THE    OLD.  IO3 

All  blessings  on  the  sacred  head 

That  wears  the  silver  crown, 
And  blessings  on  the  shaking  hand 

That  smoothes  its  brightness  down ; 
And  blessings  on  the  shrunken  lips, 

To  kindness,  only,  bold, 
Whose  very  benedictions  breathe 

The  Romance  of  the  Old  ! 

And  whether  at  the  hearth  of  Home, 

Or  in  the  world  around, 
Let 's  thank  the  Father  of  us  all 

For  mercy  so  profound  ; 
That,  as  in  Age  begins  the  sleep 

When  heart  and  hand  are  cold, 
Still  glows  a  dream  of  Youth  within 

The  Romance  of  the  Old. 


MIDSUMMER. 

MOODILY  a  hazy  glory, 
Falling  from  a  dome  of  light, 
Held  in  quiet  spell  around  me, 
Veils  my  sight. 

Sleepily  the  rose  and  lily 
Nod  along  the  garden  wall ; 

Little  care  they  for  the  future, 
If  at  all. 

Listlessly  the  dainty  zephyr 
Ripples  down  the  >  el  low  field, 

Fitfully  exposing  daisies 
Half  conceal'd. 

Heavily  the  wood  keeps  swaying, 
Giving  many  a  sleepy  start, 

While  a  little  bird  talks  music 
To  its  heart. 

Languidly  the  shining  river 

Curls  its  silver  in  the  sun, 
While  its  thousand  water-dimples 

Blend  in  one. 


MIDSUMMER.  IO5 

Weaily  the  ox  is  dozing, 

Right  amid  the  bearded  wheat, 
Winking  at  the  bluebird  tripping 

Round  his  feet. 

Cosily  old  Dobbin  feedeth 

In  the  shadow  of  the  oak, 
With  the  easy  halter  lying 

Where  it  broke. 

Drowsily  above  the  meadow 
Hums  the  vagrant,  careless  fly ; 

Can  it  be  he  is  as  lazy 
Half  as  I? 

Dreamily  I  watch  the  Summer 
Planting  sunlight  where  she  will ; 

May  her  beaming  presence  leave  me 
Dreaming  still ! 


ENGLAND   TO   AMERICA. 

(1861.) 

WESTWARD,  westward  flies  the  eagle,  westward 
with  the  setting  sun, 

To  an  eyrie  growing  golden  in  the  morning  just  begun  ; 
Where  the  world  is  new  in  promise  of  a  virgin  nation's 

love, 

And  the  grand  results  of  ages  germs  of  nobler  ages 
prove  j 

Where  a  prophecy  of  greatness  runs  through  all  the 

soul  of,  youth, 

And  the  miracle  of  Freedom  blesses  in  a  living  truth  ; 
Where  the  centuries  unnumber'd  narrow  to  a  single 

night, 
And  their  trophies  are  but  planets  wheeling  round  a 

later  light. 

Where  the  headlands  breast  the  Ocean  sweeping  round 

creation's  East, 
And  the  prairies  roll  in  blossoms  to  the  Ocean  of  the 

'   West; 
Where  the  voices  of  the  seas  are  blended  o'er  a  nation's 

birth, 
In  the  harmony  of  Nature's  hymn  to  Liberty  on  earth. 


ENGLAND    TO    AMERICA.  10? 

Land  of  Promise  !    Revelation  of  a  royalty  that  springs 

From  a  grander  depth  of  purple  than  the  heritage  of 
kings,— 

From  the  inner  purple  cherish'd  at  the  thrones  of  lives 
sublime, 

Cast  in  glorious  consecration  'neath  the  plough  of  Fa 
ther  Time,  — 

Home  of  Freedom,  hope  of  millions  born  and  slain  and 

yet  to  be, 
Shall  the  spirit  of  the  bondless,  caught  from  heaven, 

fail  in  thee  ? 
Shall  the  watching  world  behold  thee  falling  from  thy 

starry  height  ? 
Like   a  meteor,  in  thine  ending  leaving  only  darker 

night ! 

O  my  kinsmen,  O  my  brothers,  —  fellow-heirs  of  Saxon 

hearts, 
Lo,  the  Eagle  quits  his  eyrie  swifter  than  a  swallow 

darts, 

And  the  lurid  flame  of  battle  burns  within  his  angry  eye, 
Glowing  like  a  living  ember  cast  in  vengeance  from 

the  sky. 

At  thy  hearth  a  foe  has  risen,  fiercer  yet  to  burn  and 

kill, 

That  he  was  thy  chosen  brother,  —  friend  no  more,  but 

brother  still ; 
For  the  bitter  tide  of  hatred  deeper  runs  and  fiercer 

grows, 
As  the  pleading  voice  of  Nature  addeth  self-reproach 

to  blows. 


IO8  ENGLAND    TO   AMERICA. 

Strike !  and  in  the  ghastly  horrors  of  a  fratricidal  war 
Learn  the  folly  of  thy  wanderings  from  the  guiding 

Northern  Star ; 
What  were  all  thy  gains  and  glories,  to  creation's  fatal 

loss 
In  thy  Freedom's  crucifixion  on  the  cruel  Southern 

Cross  ? 

O  my  brothers  narrow-sighted,  —  O  my  brothers  slow 

to  hear 
What  the  phantoms  of  the  fallen  ever  whisper  in  the 

ear; 
God  is  just,  and  from  the  ruins  of  the  temple  rent  in 

twain 
Rises  up  the  invocation  of  a  warning  breathed  in  vain. 

All  thy  pillars  reel  around  thee  from  the  fury  of  the 

blow, 
And  the  fires  upon  thine  altars  fade  and  flicker  to  and 

fro; 
Call  the  vigor  of  thy  manhood  into  arms  from  head  to 

foot, 
Strike !  and  in  thy  strife  with  error  let  the  blow  be  at 

the  root. 

So  thy  war  shall  wear  the  glory  of  a  purpose  to  refine 

From  the  dross  of  early  folly  all  the  honor  that  is 
thine  ; 

So  thine  arms  shall  gather  friendship  to  the  standard 
of  a  cause, 

Blending  in  its  grand  approval  British  hearts  and  Brit 
ish  laws. 


ENGLAND    TO    AMERICA.  1 09 

Form  thy  heroes  into  armies  from  the  mart  and  from 

the  field, 
And  their  ranks  shall  stretch  around  thee  in  a  bristling, 

living  shield ; 
Take   the   loyal  beggar's   offer ;   for   the   war  whose 

cause  is  just- 
Breathes  the  soul  of  noblest  daring  into  forms  of  mean 
est  dust. 

Let  thy  daughters,  wreathe  their  chaplets  for  the  fore 
heads  of  the  brave, 

Let  thy  daughters  wed  the  lovers  marching  from  them 
to  the  grave ; 

Woman's  love  is  built  the  strongest  when  it  rests  on 
woman's  pride, 

Better  be  a  soldier's  widow  than  a  meek  civilian's  bride. 

Onward  let  thine  Eagles  lead  thee,  where  the  livid 

Southern  sun 
Courts  the  incense  for  the  heavens  of  a  righteous  battle 

won ; 
And  the  bright"  Potomac,  winding  through  the  fields 

unto  the  sea, 
Shall  no  longer  mark  the  libel  —  what  is  bond  and 

what  is  free. 

Rising  from  the  fierce  ordeal,  wash'd  in  blood   and 

purified, 
See  the  future  stretch  before  thee,  limitless  on  ev'ry 

side ; 

And  in  all  the  deep'ning  envy  of  the  nations  wed  to  sloth, 
Read  the  record  of  thy  progress,  see  the  mirror  of  thy 

growth. 


110  ENGLAND    TO   AMERICA. 

Rising  from  thy  purifying,  like  a  giant  from  his  rest, 
Thou  shalt  find  thy  praise  an  echo  from  the  East  unto 

the  West ; 
Thou  shalt  find  thy  love  a  message  from  the  South 

unto  the  North, 
Each  its  past  mistake  of  duty  finding  out  and  casting 

forth. 

And  thy  States  in  new  communion,  by  the  blood  they 

all  have  shed, 

Shall  be  wedded  to  each  other  in  the  pardon  of  the  dead  ; 
Each,  a  scale  of  steel  to  cover  vital  part  from  foreign 

wrong, 
All,  a  coat  of  armor  guarding  that  to  which  they  All 

belong. 

Thou  shalt  measure  seas  with  navies,  span  the  earth 

with  iron  rails, 
Catch  the  dawn  upon  thy  banner  and  the  sunset  on  thy 

sails  ; 
Northern  halls  of  ice  shall  echo  to  thy  sailor's  merry 

note, 
And  the  standard  of  thy  soldier  o'er  the  Southern  isle 

shall  float. 

Turning  to  thy  mother,  England,  thou  shalt  find  her 

making  boast 
Of  the  Great  Republic  westward,  born  of  strength  that 

she  has  lost ; 
And  thy  Saxon  blood  shall  join  ye,  never  to  be  torn 

apart, 
Moving  onward  to  the  future,  hand  in  hand  and  heart 

to  heart. 


THE   DEATH   OF   THE   ROSES. 

WHO  shall  tell  the  roses  now 
Where  their  missing  loves  are  lying, 
Buried  under  softest  snows, 

By  the  sweetest  torture  dying,  — 
Dying,  like  the  morning's  ray 
Lapt  and  lost  in  perfect  day  ? 

Dainty  Zephyr,  cherish'd  oft 
By  the  flow'rs  to  their  undoing, 

Have  you  found  the  Roses'  grave 
Here,  or  there,  in  all  your  wooing,  — 

Wooing  wide  and  wooing  free, 

Constant  to  Inconstancy  ? 

Brief  the  tale  the  Zephyr  tells, 
How  the  pair  he  half  discover'd 

Lurking  'neath  a  virgin's  veil, 

As  about  the  place  he  hover'd,  — 

Hover'd,  till  in  orange  sprays 

Quick  he  lost  them  from  his  gaze. 

Orange  Blossoms,  frail  as  fair, 
Loved  of  all  who  wear  the  kirtle, 


112  THE    DEATH    OF    THE    ROSES. 

Know  ye  if  the  Roses  lost 
'     Kiss'd  the  Cypress,  or  the  Myrtle  ? 
Myrtle,  ask  the  Cypress,  thou, 
Where  the  Roses  died,  and  how  ? 

This  the  tale  the  blossoms  tell, 
Whisp'ring  one  unto  the  other, 

Softly,  softly  breathing  low 
As  they  would  the  secret  smother,  -=- 

Smother  from  the  Blue-bell's  ear, 

Bent  in  expectation  near. 

On  the  cheeks  the  lover  wed 

Grew  the  Roses  ;  there  they  perish'd 

When,  before  the  altar,  Love 

Rivals  to  the  Roses  cherish'd,  — 

Cherish'd  Lilies  for  the  Bride,  — 

Then  and  there  the  Roses  died  ! 


THE  FALLEN   LEAF. 

TWAS  green  a  little  while  ago, 
And  moist  with  all  the  Summer's  breath ; 
But  now  it  flutters  to  and  fro, 

And,  touch'd  with  Autumn,  bleeds  to  death. 

First  when  it  hung  upon  the  bough, 

The  earliest  leaflet  of  the  tree, 
The  branch  that  claim'd  it  made  a  vow 

To  cherish  it  with  constancy. 

But  as  its  sister-leaves  appear'd, 

And  each  her  newer  charms  display'd, 

It  ceased,  alas!  to  be  endear'd, 

And  droop'd  neglected  in  the  shade. 

Ah  me  !  how  many  a  human  thing, 

From  loving  first  and  best  of  all, 
Has  blossom'd  earliest  in  the  Spring, 

To  wither  soonest  in  the  Fall ! 


NO   MORE. 

HUSH'D  be  the  song  and  the  love-notes  of  glad 
ness 

That  broke  with  the  morn  from  the  cottager's  door  — 
Muffle  the  tread  in  the  soft  stealth  of  sadness, 

For  one  who  returneth,  whose  chamber-lamp  burneth 

No  more. 

Silent  he  lies  on  the  broad  path  of  glory, 

Where  withers  ungarner'd  the  red  crop  of  war. 

Grand  is  his  couch,  though  the  pillows  are  gory, 

'Mid  forms  that  shall  battle,  'mid  guns  that  shall  rattle 

No  more. 

Soldier  of  Freedom,  thy  marches  are  ended,  — 

The  dreams  that  were  prophets  of  triumph  are  o'er ; 

Death  with  the  night  of  thy  manhood  is  blended,  — 
The  bugle  shall  call  thee,  the  fight  shall  enthrall  thee 

No  more. 

Far  to  the  Northward  the  banners  are  dimming, 

And  faint  comes  the  tap  of  the  drummers  before  ; 
Low  in  the  tree-tops  the  swallow  is  skimming ; 

Thy  comrades  shall  cheer  thee,  the  weakest  shall 
fear  thee 

No  more. 


NO    MORE.  115 

Far  to  the  Westward  the  day  is  at  vespers, 

And  bows  down  its  head,  like  a  priest,  to  adore , 

Soldier,  the  twilight  for  thee  has  no  whispers, 

The  night  shall  forsake  thee,  the  morn  shall  awake  thee 

No  more. 

Wide  o'er  the  plain,  where  the  white  tents  are  gleaming, 
In  spectral  array,  like  the  graves  they  're  before  — 

One  there  is  empty,  where  once  thou  wert  dreaming 
Of  deeds  that  are  boasted,  of  One  that  is  toasted 

No  more. 

When  the  Commander  to-morrow  proclaimeth 

A  list  of  the  brave  for  the  nation  to  store, 
Thou  shalt  be  known  with  the  heroes  he  nameth, 
Who  wake  from  their  slumbers,  who  answer  their 
numbers 

No  more. 

Hush'd  be  the  song  and  the  love-notes  of  gladness 
That  broke  with  the  morn  from  the  cottager's  door, — 

Muffle  the  tread  in  the  soft  stealth  of  sadness, 

For  one  who  returneth,  whose  chamber-lamp  burneth 

No  more. 


THE   HOPES   OF   DAYS  GONE   BY. 

YE  royal  years,  whose  crowns  on  crosses  rest, 
Rich  in  all  honors,  deathless  in  all  fame  ; 
Grand  with  the  echoes  of  a  god's  reply 
To  the  wild  pray'r  Ambition  gives  the  breast,  — 
Where  is  the  Promise,  nobler  far,  that  bless'd 
The  Hopes  of  Days  gone  by  ? 

Shadows  of  shades,  that  chill  and  mock  the  soul ! 
Spectres  to  Mem'ry  of  the  UnfulfilPd  ; 

Harsh  with  unkind  reproaches  to  the  eye 
That  looks  on  all,  and  misses  yet  the  whole  — 
O  flow'rs  of  youth,  that  all  your  sweetness  stole !  — 

The  Hopes  of  Days  gone  by. 

Fond,  foolish  dreams  !  of  childish  fever  born  ; 
Vain  as  the  airy  cities  of  the  clouds 

By  poet-fancy  traced  against  the  sky  ; 
Frail  as  the  bubble  on  the  new  wave  worn, 
Yet  pure  and  holy  as  the  hush  of  morn,  — 

The  Hopes  of  Days  gone  by ! 

Years,  weary  years,  with  all  the  woes  ye  win 
For  throned  Misfortune,  there  's  a  moment  still 

In  anguish  richer  than  to  know  and  die,  — 
When  Boyhood  ends,  and  Manhood's  cares  begin, 
To  feel  and  know  that  naught  was  real  in 

The  Hopes  of  Days  gone  by ! 


WINTER. 

A  I  AHE  Northern  winds,  like  sorrow  stirr'd  to  wrath, 

i     Moan  through  the  vista  of  the  planet's  path, 
And  in  the  world's  chill  ev'ning  just  begun 
Fan  to  a  hueless  fire  a  dying  sun. 

Upon  the  sea,  where  water-mountains  rise 
And  hurl  the  spray  in  brilliants  to  the  skies, 
A  breath  of  Odin,  from  a  frosty  lip, 
Show'rs  back  dead  lilies  round  about  the  ship. 

Then,  as  the  billows  sweeping  to  the  Pole 
Dimly  through  Arctic  sunset  flushes  roll, 
Slow  from  the  deep  a  crystal  city  grows, 
Wall'd  with  rock  mirrors,  roof 'd  with  royal  snows. 

Sandal'd  with  ice,  and  veil'd  in  silver  mist, 
Touch'd  by  the  day  to  tints  of  amethyst, 
The  bride  of  Charon  gains  the  silent  shore, 
Queen  of  the  Year  that  rules  the  world  no  more. 

Dead  to  the  passions,  stricken  Nature  sleeps, 
Like  a  dead  mother  when  her  infant  weeps  ; 
Dead  to  the  morning  light,  .the  ev'ning  hours  ; 
Dead  !  for  her  soul  hath  vanish'd  with  the  flow'rs. 


I  I  8  WINTER. 

Lone  in  his  many-column'd  forest  hall 
Paces  the  wolf,  with  hungry  eye  for  all ; 
High  on  the  leafless  branch  the  starving  crow 
Droops,  like  an  omen  of  a  doom  below. 

Far  stretch  the  fields  in  ruin  desolate, 
Blank  as  the  parchment  of  unwritten  Fate, 
Gray  with  the  ashes  of  a  harvest  done, 
Sad  with  the  mem'ry  of  a  reaper  gone. 

Sharp  through  the  day's  eclipse  the  road  curls  round, 
Linking  the  doorway  with  the  churchyard  ground ; 
Showing  in  all  its  length  one  shape  alone,  — 
A  crouching  beggar,  frozen  to  the  bone  ! 

With  but  that  beggar's  eye  to  mark  his  fall, 
And  he  a-dying  —  dead  and  dying  all ! 
The  Old  Year  bows  his  head  upon  his  breast, 
While  his  last  sun  goes  down  to  endless  rest. 

Then  gath'ring  to  his  royal  brow  a  cloud, 
Fraught  with  a  crown  of  ice  and  ermine  shroud, 
Ere  yet  the  New  Year's  bells  begin  to  ring, 
Together  die  the  Beggar  and  the  King. 


THE   ANCIENT   CAPTAIN. 

THE  smiles  of  an  ev'ning  were  shed  on  the  sea, 
And  its  wave-lips  laugh'd  through  their  beard- 
ings  of  foam  ; 

And  the  eyes  of  an  ev'ning  were  mirror'd  beneath 
Both  the  shroud  of  the  ship  and  her  home. 

As  Time  knows  an  end,  so  that  sea  knew  a  shore, 

Afar  in  a  beautiful,  tropical  clime, 
Where  Love  with  the  Life  of  each  being  is  blent, 

In  soft,  psychological  Rhyme. 

O,  grand  was  the  shore,  when  deserted  and  still 
It  breasted  the  silver-mail'd  hosts  of  the  Deep, 

And  like  the  last  bulwark  of  Nature  it  seem'd, 
'Twixt  Death  and  an  Innocent's  sleep. 

But  grander  it  was  to  the  eyes  of  a  knight, 

When,  clad  in  his  armor,  he  stood  on  the  sands, 

And  held  to  his  bosom  its  essence  of  Life,  - 
An  heiress  of  titles  and  lands. 

Ah,  fondly  he  gazed  on  the  face  of  the  maid  ! 

And  blush-spoken  fondness  replied  to  his  look  ; 
While  heart  answer'd  heart  with  a  feverish  beat, 

And  hand  press'd  the  hand  that  it  took. 


120  THE    ANCIENT    CAPTAIN. 

"  Fair  lady  of  mine,"  said  the  knight,  stooping  low, 
"  Before  I  depart  for  the  banquet  of  Death, 

I  crave  a  new  draught  from  the  fountain  of  Life, 
Whose  waters  are  all  in  thy  breath. 

"  The  breast  that  is  fill'd  with  thine  image  alone 
May  safely  defy  the  dread  tempest  of  steel ; 

For  while  all  its  thoughts  are  of  love  and  of  thee, 
What  peril  of  Self  can  it  feel  ? " 

He  paused  ;  and  the  silence  that  follow'd  his  words 
Was  spread  like  a  Hope,  'twixt  a  Dream  and  a  truth  ; 

And  in  it  his  fancy  created  a  world 

Wrought  out  of  the  dreams  of  his  youth. 

Then  shadows  crept  over  the  beautiful  face 

Turn'd  up  to  the  sky  in  the  pale  streaming  light, 

As  shadows  sweep  over  the  orient  pearl, 
Far  down  in  the  river  at  night. 

"  You  're  going,"  she  said,  "  where  the  fleets  are  in 
leash, 

Where  plumed  is  a  knight  for  each  wave  of  the  sea, 
Yet  all  the  wide  Ocean  shall  have  but  One  wave, 

One  ship  and  One  sailor  for  me  ! " 

He  left  her,  as  leaveth  the  god  of  a  dream 
The  portals  that  close  with  a  heavier  sleep ; 

And  then,  as  he  sprang  to  the  shallop  in  wait, 
The  rowers  push'd  off  in  the  Deep. 


CHRISTMAS   EVE. 


i. 

THE  solemn  winds  were  sighing  for  the  echoes, 
dead  and  dying, 
That  were  wont  to  teach  them  music  when  their 

lutes  were  on  the  trees  ; 
And  the  snow  in  tides  was  curling,  dancing  here  and 

there,  and  whirling 

Fitful  ashes  of  the  lilies  on  the  waves  of  ghostly 
seas. 

n. 

Like  haunted  mausoleum,  'neath  the  spell  of  a  Te 

Deum, 

That  should  lay  the  restless  spirit  of  some  disem 
bodied  woe, 
Stretch 'd  the  world  in  awful  slumber,  while  the  ocean 

pulsed  the  number 

Of  its  years,  upon  that  Christmas  Eve  within  the 
Long  Ago. 

III. 

The  trees,  all  wan,  and  tatter'd,  spread  their  wither'd 

arms,  and  shattered, 

To  receive  their  shrouds  of  ermine  as  they  fell  in 
fringes  down ; 
6 


122  CHRISTMAS    EVE. 

And  each  tall  and  spectral  steeple,  keeping  guard  o'er 

hidden  people, 

Caught  the   heav'nly  benefaction   in  a  mitre  or  a 
crown. 

IV. 

The  awe-struck  soul  of  Nature,  turning  softly  from  the 

Future, 
Look'd,  in  dreams,  through  weary  ages  back  to  a 

celestial  morn  ; 
And  while  snows  were  sadly  falling,  and  the  wind  to 

wind  was  calling, 

Felt  the  glory  of  that  moment  when  Our  Blessed 
Lord  was  born  ! 

v. 
Afar  the  wings  were  shaken,  that  the  winter's  gnomes 

had  taken, 
And  they  shaped  and  cast  their  feather'd  flakes  on 

palace  and  on  cot ; 
But  though  all  the  rest  had  slumber'd  that  the  living 

world  had  number'd, 

Still  one  there  was  who  cowering  felt,  although  he 
heard  them  not. 

VI. 

Where  crazy  casements  rattled,  and  a  door  uneven 

battled 
With  the  grim  and  ice-mail'd  spearsmen  charging 

blindly  on  the  blast, 
Dwelt   the   Watcher,   old    and   lonely,   with    a   bitter 

mem'ry  only 

To  keep  him  present  company  and  to  link  him  with 
the  past. 


CHRISTMAS   EVE.  123 

VII. 

His  garments,  thin  and  tatter'd,  o'er  his  poor  old  form 

were  scatter'd, 
Like  the  shrivell'd  leaves  of  autumn  o'er  a  fallen 

forest  tree  ; 
And  his  hoary  locks,  that  blended  with  a  silv'ry  beard 

untended, 

Framed  features  pinch'd  with  years  of  want  and 
piteous  poverty. 

VIII. 

No  fagot  blazed  to  cheer  him,   and  the  empty  cup- 
1  •        board  near  him 

Was  eloquent  of  all  that  lowliest  poverty  can  bear, 
While  there  burn'd  a  single  taper,  whose  each  faint 

and  sickly  caper 

Show'd  hideous  spiders,  webb'd  and  toss'd  upon  the 
frosty  air. 

IX. 

But  spite  of  all  the  squalor,  and  the  misery  and  dolor, 
Which  relentlessly  had  bound  him  in  the  most  for 
lorn  estate, 
There  around  him  clung  a  glory,  like  to  some  unwritten 

story 

That,  revealing  from  a  ruin,  tells  the  temple  once 
was  great. 

x. 

Within   the   taper's  glimmer,  and  while  yet   it  faded 

dimmer, 

Like  a  vague  and  taunting  spectre  of  the  world's 
misguided  dress, 


124  CHRISTMAS    EVE. 

He  sat  with  all  the  seeming  e'en  of  one  in  memory 

dreaming, 

And  clasp'd  in  his  poor,  quivering  hands  a  little 
Golden  Cross. 

XL 

Before  the  days  of  trouble,  't  was  a  woman  wore  the 

bauble  — 

A  maiden  true  and  holy  as  the  spirit  of  a  prayer  ; 
Angel  wings  in  all  her  motions,  and  the  souls  of  living 

oceans 

Prison'd   in  the  eyes  reflecting  all  the  sunlight  of 
her  hair. 

XII. 

A  Father's  Faith  was  round  her,  and  in  sunny  chains 

it  bound  her 
To  her  young  heart's  best  ideal  of  a  Mother  gone 

Above  ; 
But,  alas  !  the  chains  were  broken,  when  the  words  in 

secret  spoken 

Tore  her  soul  from  out  its  heaven  with  a  troubled 
dream  of  Love. 

XIII. 

Then  came   a  waking  morrow,   when  the  depths  of 

tearless'sorrow 
Render' cl  up  their  dead  in  curses  that  would  stir  a 

god  to  fear  ; 
And   while    Christmas    bells    were   ringing,    and    the 

Christmas  choirs  were  singing, 
All  the  old  man's  Hope  went  down  to  death  as 
waned  the  dying  year. 


CHRISTMAS    EVE.  1 25 

XIV. 

Upon  the  highway  wending,  soon  a  figure,  slight  and 

bending, 
Swept  by  the  happier  beggar,  who  in  pity  ceased  to 

grieve  ; 
For  the  Curse  had  bred  a  terror  in  that  stricken  child 

of  Error, 

And  she  fled,  she  knew  not  whither,  on  that  dark 
some  Christmas  Eve. 


xv. 

The  old  man,  grim  and  lonely,  waited  —  waited  for 

this  only  — 
A  moment  —  e'en  a  second  —  in  the  short'ning  of 

his  days, 
To  make  the  Curse  a  Blessing  —  for  his  sorrowing  soul 

confessing, 

Left  his  loss  a  double  torture,  with  the  Lost  before 
his  gaze. 


XVI. 

But  years  roll'd  on  unheeding,  —  deaf  to  all  his  hopes 

and  pleading 
That  some  gentle  day  would  bring  her,  like  God's 

pardon,  to  his  door  ; 
And  the  Curse,  in  vengeance  utter'd,  ever  round  his 

being  mutter'd 

From  the  likeness  of  a -Shadow  —  Her  last  shadow 
on  the  floor  ! 


126  CHRISTMAS    EVE. 

XVII. 

He  sat,  that  Christmas  Even,  thus  the  bann'd  of  Earth 

and  Heaven, 
With  the  best  and  only  token  of  the  angel  that  had 

been  ; 
And  the  glittering  Cross,  uplifted,  seem'd   by  God's 

approval  gifted 

With   pow'r   to  weigh   a   father's   tears   against   a 
father's  sin. 


XVIII. 

While  yet  he  gazed  in  sadness,  rose  the  winds  in  sud 
den  madness 
And  dash'd  down  the  door  between  them  and  the 

hoary  watcher  there, 
And  upon  the  threshold  kneeling,  .with  no  gloom  of 

night  concealing, 

He  beheld  Her,  as  he  knew  her,  with  the  sunlight 
in  her  hair ! 


XIX. 

"  AT  LAST  !  "    The  sentence  spoken  from  a  heart  long 

lone  and  broken 
Told  of  all  the  weary  sorrows  that  a  life  had  made 

its  store. 
The  kneeling  Spirit  listen'd,  and  the  Cross  all  glorious 

glisten'd  ; 

And  behold   the  haunting  Shadow  faded  from 'the 
dimming  floor  ! 


CHRISTMAS   EVE. 


XX. 

"  My  sin   is  all  forgiven  !    and  you  pray  for  me   in 

Heaven  !  " 
The  old  man  wildly  whisper'd  with  his  faltering  lips 

apart  ; 
The  Spirit  grasps  his  fingers,  for  a  moment  pitying 

lingers, 

Then  enfolds  the  Sacred  Symbol  with  his  hands 
unto  Her  heart  ! 


xxi. 

Like  music  born  of  Sorrow,  but  as  sweet  as  Love's  to 
morrow, 
There  were  heard  these  words  of  comfort,  and  all 

lovingly  they  fell  : 
"  I  am  worthy  now  to  wear  it.     Father  —  Mother  — 

you  can  spare  it ; 

For  your  Child,  through  deep  repentance,  made  the 
Curse  a  Holy  Spell." 

xxn. 

The  old  man's  voice  resounded,  and  from  wall  and 

beam  rebounded, 
With  grandeur,  like  the  organ's  swell,  where  saint- 

liest  worlds  adore  : 
"  Angel  —  Darling  —  let  me  grasp  thee  !  —  Let  these 

arms  once,  only,  clasp  thee  !  " 

And   with    arms    outspread   and    groping,   he    fell 
blindly  to  the  floor. 


128  CHRISTMAS    EVE. 

XXIII. 

There  crept  a  hush  on  Nature,  and  each  dumb  and 

browsing  creature 
Turn'd  its  head  with  instinct  reverence  unto  the 

sacred  East ; 
And  midway  of  the  Heaven  burst  the  imperial  Star 

of  Even  ; 

For  the  tyrant  Wind  was  broken^  and  the  Wintry 
storm  had  ceased. 


XXIV. 

The  solemn  bells  were  chiming,  in  a  measured  cadence 

timing 
All  the  world's  supreme  pulsation  when  there  dies 

Another  Day ; 
And  the  shining  hosts  of  glory  in  sweet  murmurs  told 

the  story 

Of  our  Blessed  Saviour's  Coming,  and  the  Manger 
where  He  lay. 


xxv. 

The   silent   moon    swept   gleaming,  'mid  her  planet- 
torches  streaming, 
And  she  paved  the  floor  with  quaint  designs  of  pearl 

and  silver  bands ; 
But  the  old  man,  calmly  sleeping,  still  his  Christmas 

Eve  was  keeping 

Prone  in  the  ghostly  radiance,  with  his  face  upon  his 
hands. 


THE   DYING   YEAR. 

tYING  at  last,  Old  Year  ! 

Another  stroke  of  yonder  clock,  and  thou 
Wilt  pass  the  threshold  of  the  world  we  see, 
Into  the  world  where  Yesterday  and  Now 
Blend  with  the  hours  of  the  No  More  To  Be. 


D 


I  saw  the  moon  last  night 
Rise  like  a  crown  from  the  dim  mountain's  head 

And  to  the  Council  of  the  Stars  take  way ; 
For  thou,  the  King,  though  kinsman  of  the  dead, 

Sway'd  still  the  sceptre  of  Another  Day. 

I  see  the  moon  to-night, 
Sightless  and  misty  as  a  mourner's  eye 

Behind  a  veil  ;  or,  like  a  coin  to  seal 
The  lids  of  Time's  last-born  to  majesty, 

Press'd  on  the  eyes  that  look  a  Last  Appeal. 

Mark  where  yon  shadow  crawls 
By  slow  degrees  beneath  the  window-sill, 

Timed  by  the  death-watch,  ticking  slow  and  dull ; 
The  tide  of  night  is  rising,  black  and  still  — 
Old  Year,  thou  diest  when  't  is  at  its  full ! 

6*  i 


I3O  THE    DYING    YEAR. 

Aye!  moan  and  moan  again, 
And  shake  all  nature  in  thine  agony, 

And  tear  the  ermine  robes  that  mock  thee  now 
Like  gilded  fruit  upon  a  blasted  tree  ; 

To-morrow  comes  !     To-morrow,  where  art  Thou  ? 

Would'st  thou  be  shrived,  Old  Year  ? 
Thou  subtle  sentence  of  delusive  Time, 

Framed  but  to  deepen  all  the  mystery 
Of  Life's  great  purpose  !     Come,  confess  the  crime, 

And  man's  Divinity  shall  date  from  thee  ! 

Speak  to  my  soul,  Old  Year ; 
Let  but  a  star  leave  its  bright  eminence 

In  thy  death  struggle,  if  this  deathless  Soul 
Holds  its  own  destiny  and  recompense 

In  the  grand  mast'ry  of  a  GOD'S  control ! 

No  sound,  no  sign  from  thee  ? 
And  must  I  live,  not  knowing  why  I  live, 

Whilst  Thou  and  years  to  come  pass  by  me  here 
With  faces  hid,  refusing  still  to  give 

The  one  poor  word  that  bids  me  cease  to  fear  ? 

That  word,  I  charge  thee,  speak ! 
Quick  !  for  the  moments  tremble  on  the  verge 

Of  the  black  chasm  where  lurks  the  midnight  spell, 
And  solemn  winds  already  chant  thy  dirge  — 

Give  Earth  its  Heav'n,  or  Hell  a  deeper  Hell ! 

Speak  !  or  I  curse  thee  here  ! 
I  '11  call  it  YEA  if  but  a  withered  twig, 


THE    DYING    YEAR.  1 

Toss'd  by  the  wind,  falls  rattling  on  the  roof ; 
I  '11  call  it  YEA,  if  e'en  a  shutter  creak, 

Breathe  but  on  me,  and  it  shall  stand  for  proof  ! 

Too  late  !     The  midnight  bell  — 
The  crawling  shadow  at  its  witching  flood, 

With  the  deep  gloom  of  the  Beyond  is  wed, 
And  I,  unanswer'd,  sit  within  and  brood, 

And  thou,  Old  Year,  art  silent  —  Thou  art  DEAD  ! 


THE  LAST   DAY. 


LIKE  some  dark  Soul  whose  wearied  Passions  sleep, 
Yet  is  itself  a  watchful,  sentient  thing, 
Poised  in  the  void  of  Instinct's  pulseless  Deep, 

Where  broods  and  low'rs,  on  unascending  wing, 
A  voiceless,  vague  Eternity  of  Fear : 

So,  looming  spectral  through  a  vaster  sphere 
Of  shade  all  shadowless  and  crystal  clear 

As  purpling  pallor  from  a  cold,  dead  Sun  ;  — 
Soundless  of  life,  save  where  a  mournful  bell 
Wails  from  its  cleaving  tongue  the  crooning  knell 

Of  the  last  Hour  it  pealeth  :  — 
A  Nun  !     In  hooded  Universe,  a  Nun, 
The  World  unbreathing  kneeleth. 


IT. 

In  awful  court  the  dying  Stars  look  down, 

With  something  weird  and  deathful  in  the  light 
Pour'd  in  a  livid  lustre  from  the  crown 

That  binds  the  arching  temples  of  the  night 
In  pensive  beauty,  sorrowfully  fair ; 

And,  gazing  sadly  from  their  thrones  of  air, 
Seem  dimm'd  with  pitying,  and  wan  with  care 

Of  some  supernal  foresight  of  the  heart 


THE    LAST    DAY.  133 

Boding  of  Change  ;  and  heavy  with  a  dread, 
Born  from  the  haunted  Stillness  overhead, 

Of  a  Command  to  Sever  : 
To  Part !  from  Heaven's  brotherhood  to  part ! 

And  shine  no  more  forever. 


in. 
A  drowning  Moon  in  wat'ry  distance  swims, 

As  lifeless  white  —  (in  fix'd  and  baleful  mien 
Glazed  into  death  between  encurdled  rims)  — 

As,  stark  and  still,  through  shoals  of  Ocean  seen 
A  stony,  staring,  upturn'd  human  face  : 

And,  bearing  lonely  there  in  shoreless  Space 
A  ghost  of  continents,  —  whose  dark'ning  trace 

Turns  wrinkled  shadows  of  a  pleading  frown,  — 
Deadens  to  mist ;  as  though  in  lost  dismay 
Of  what  Creation's  lips  of  ether  say, 

Stirr'd  by  a  moaning  sorrow  : 
Go  down  !  all  pale  with  agony  go  down  ! 
And  rise  in  Blood  To-morrow. 

IV. 

As  pass  the  Hours  ;  a  mute  and  viewless  throng ;  — 

Each  in  its  birth  a  world-surrounding  Thought ;  — 
Drawn  from  about  Humanity  again, 

A  blank,  unlived  infinity  of  naught, 
In  silent,  ebbing  funeral  to  GOD, 

There  falleth,  muffled,  like  a  ghostly  clod 
Upon  a  coffin  cavern  ing  the  sod 

And  wide  and  hollow  as  the  palling  skies, 
Something  of  Doom  ;  to  paralyze  the  heart 


134  THE    LAST    DAY. 

And  make  the  deepest  dreamless  Sleeper  start,  — 

As  though  the  Sentence  hearing  : 
Arise  !  ye  Dead,  from  out  your  graves  Arise  ! 
The  End  of  Time  is  nearing. 

v. 
On  couch  and  cot  the  countless  sons  of  men, 

From  palace  walls  of  pictured  watchers  built 
Down  to  the  bare,  and  rude,  and  rafter'd  den 

Where  lives  or  lurketh  Poverty  or  Guilt, 
In  mutely  mocking  self-communion  sleep  ; 

And,  wing'd  with  terror,  through  their  visions  sweep, 
To  make  the  flesh  in  clammy  horror  creep, 

Embodied  Monsters  of  the  rising  Past, 
Direful  of  Sin  ;  and  saying  to  the  Soul,  — 
In  meaning  vengeful  of  a  Judgment  Scroll 

Writ  with  a  fate  infernal :  — 
The  Last !  of  all  thy  nights  on  earth,  the  Last ! 
Before  the  Dawn  Eternal. 

VI. 

The  purest  breast  that  Virtue  holdeth  dear, 

And  in  the  noons  of  Pestilence  and  Strife 
Lulls  to  a  sweet  forgetfulness  of  fear 

With  inward  murmurs  of  a  Nobler  Life 
To  crown  and  bless  the  martyrdom  of  This, 

In  startled  tremors  owns  the  dread  amiss 
Of  Night's  unfathomable,  dark  abyss 

Where  coming  Evil  stills  the  crouching  air ; 
Throbbing  with  awe  of  some  Approach  unknown, 
Told  to  the  dreaming  Spirit  in  the  tone 
Of  its  own  sightless  reading  : — « 


THE    LAST    DAY.  135 

Prepare  !    To  meet  thy  Judge  in  clouds,  Prepare  ! 
The  Cross  anew  is  Bleeding. 

VII. 

Through  hearts  of  Guile,  (whose  fitful,  stealthy  rest 

Scarce  drops  the  lid  of  lithe  and  tiger  guilt 
Hot  on  the  eye,  from  straining  socket  prest 

To  catch  and  glare  defiant  at  the  hilt 
It  knows  impatient  waits  the  Slayer's  grasp,) 

An  icy  shudder,  worming  like  an  asp, 
Thrills  slowly  terrible  ;  with  choking  gasp 

Of  fiercest  passion,  turn'd  poltroon  to  fate 
Vision'd  in  dreams,  and  dreadful  to  the  thought 
As  from  its  own  affright  the  sense  it  caught 
Of  a  Decree  appalling  : 

Too  Late  !     To  flee  and  hide  thyself,  Too  Late  ! 
The  Hand  of  GOD  is  Falling. 


And  over  All,  —  as  wane  the  watches  kept 

By  lonely  shades  of  buried  kindred,  drawn 
Cold  from  the  graves  where  they  so  long  have  slept 

To  wait  and  hail  the  Last,  majestic  Dawn 
That  shows  them  faces  well  beloved  again, 

The  bending  Heaven  grows  a  paling  plain 
Of  Morning  colorless  ;  as  though  a  pain 

Of  dissolution  blanch'd  its  unborn  rose  ; 
Clasping  the  World  in  cold  and  ashen  rim, 
'Till  o'er  its  circled  edge,  like  caldron's  brim, 
Fire  from  the  nadir  flaketh. 

It  glows  !     In  swiftly  cleep'ning  flush  it  glows  ! 
The  Last,  Red  Morning  breaketh. 


136  THE    LAST    DAY. 

IX. 

From  slumbers  troubled  unrefresh'd  arise 

The  Old  and  Young ;  in  all  their  souls  to  feel 
Tired  of  the  scenes  that  meet  their  heavy  eyes, 

And  worn  and  sick  with  struggles  to  conceal 
The  frenzied,  vast  accusings  of  their  Dreams. 

And  half  distrustful  to  their  vision  seems 
The  face  first  greeting  them  ;  which  answ'ring  teems 

With  covert  doubtings  of  its  Own  clear  tale. 
Speechless  are  all,  and  fill'd  with  vague  dismay, 
Lest  with  the  op'ning  lips  the  tongue  should  say, 
As  by  an  instinct  bidden  :  — 

Unveil !    Thy  self-accusing  heart  Unveil ! 
The  Sin  no  more  is  hidden. 

x. 

With  looks  cast  down,  and  steps  to  wand'ring  bent, 

Each  turns  from  Each,  to  seek,  apart  from  Men, 
Balm  for  the  strange  and  restless  Discontent 

That  moves  and  darkens  in  his  spirit  when 
He  seeming  feels  a  calm,  relentless  Eye  ; 

And,  glancing  listless  to  the  lurid  sky, 
Is  one  of  Myriads  who  see  on  high, 

In  one  wild  Moment's  age  with  terror  gray, 
Something  to  craze  the  naked  Soul,  and  shake 
Earth  with  the  shriek  their  million  voices  make, 
As  from  a  bursting  prison  :  — 

'T  is  DAY  !  —  O,  GOD  be  Merciful  — 'T  is  DAY  ! 
AND  YET  NO  SUN  HAS  RISEN  1 


SEMPER   FIDELIS. 

THY  face  turn  on  me  when  I  die, 
That,  through  the  shadows  dark  and  chill, 
The  deep  blue  Heaven  of  thine  eye, 
May  open  to  my  spirit  still. 

Let  others  sacrifice  in  tears 

What  pity  they  may  yield  to  me  ; 
But  be  thy  look  the  look  of  years, 

And  steadfast  as  thy  constancy. 

O  tender  look  !  O  azure  calm  ! 

Thy  spell  unbroken  o'er  me  keep ; 
Still  brooding,  like  a  voiceless  psalm, 

Above  the  twilight  of  my  sleep. 

And  fall  so  fair  on  all  of  earth, 

That  in  new  meaning  I  may  see 
The  world's  unkindness  from  my  birth, 

And  love  it  all  in  loving  thee. 

So,  in  the  latest  hour  I  live, 

To  feel  so  much  of  coming  Heav'n, 

Shall  teach  me  better  to  forgive, 
By  teaching  that  I  am  forgiv'n. 


THE  VERSE. 

WHO  hath  his  birthright  in  immortal  Song, 
To  disappointment  should  be  doubly  strong  ; 
In  him  't  is  strength  to  know  that  man  is  frail, 
And  greatness  measured  by  a  might  to  fail. 

When,  by  a  lofty  inspiration  driv'n, 
His  pen  appears  the  lightning-tongue  of  Heav'n, 
He  writes  a  dream,  — and  lo !  his  lines  have  caught 
The  shadow  only  of  a  dreamer's  thought. 

To  him  all  nature  in  the  sunshine  spread 

Reveals  a  Poem  yet  divinely  dead  ; 

He  sees  descend  through  clouds,  in  summer  show'rs, 

The  souls  transparent  of  the  coming  flow'rs  ; 

But  when  his  hand,  in  mood  sublime,  would  fain 
Write  out  the  Poem,  penn'd  in  living  rain, 
All  semblance  fadeth  as  the  moisture  dries, 
The  rain  remaineth  only  for  his  eyes. 

One  Verse  alone  all  Poetry  combines, 
Its  grandeur  perfect  in  four  simple  lines  : 
Earth,  Air,  Fire,  Water,  or  to  bless  or  curse, 
Its  writer  God,  its  name  the  Universe ! 


SATIRES  AND  BURLESQUES 


A   FABLE   FOR   STRATEGISTS. 

THE  Animals  once,  in  a  classical  age, 
Were  fill'd  with  the  wildest  affright, 
Because  of  a  Serpent  a  hundred  feet  long, 
That  came  on  a  mission  of  spite, 

One  night, 
And  stretch'd  himself  out  in  their  sight. 

The  donkey,  the  sloth,  the  hyena,  and  bear, 
The  foxes,  the  monkeys,  and  cows, 

Join'd  in  with  the  rest  of  the  statelier  herd 
In  uproars  sufficient  to  rouse 

Bow-wows 
From  dogs  —  and  from  felines  mee-yows. 

It  chanced  that  great  Jupiter,  passing  that  way, 
Was  call'd  to  the  spot  by  the  sound, 

And,  straightway  establishing  criers  and  court, 
He  summon'd  the  creatures  he  found 

Around, 
Requesting  them  all  to  expound. 

Old  Leo,  the  Lion,  who  crouch'd  in  a  bush, 
Too  sick  and  too  feeble  to  roar, 


142  A    FABLE    FOR    STRATEGISTS. 

Made  bold  to  explain,  in  a  dignified  way, 
The  very  lamentable  bore  — 

And  more  —  j 

Of  having  a  snake  at  their  door. 

"  And,  old  as  I  am,"  mutter'd  Leo  the  lame, 
"  Myself  would  the  reptile  defy ; 
But  snakes,  as  your  worship  undoubtedly  knows, 
Require  an  opponent  that  's  spry  ; 

And  I 
Can  better  devise  than  apply. 

"  Permit  me  to  say,  that  your  worship  should  name 

A  champion  over  the  rest, 
And  give  unto  him,  by  your  magical  pow'r, 
What  weapon  he  claims  is  the  best 

To  wrest 
The  snake  from  the  family  nest." 

Then  Jupiter  nodded  a  mighty  assent, 

And  ask'd,  in  a  thundering  key  : 
"  What  animal  here  feeleth  competent  quite 
To  conquer  the  serpent  —  if  he 

From  me 
Can  have  what  he  wishes  for,  free  ? " 

Up  spake  a  young  monkey  of  average  size, 

With  manner  peculiarly  bold, 
"  Yon  serpent  I  '11  conquer  and  drive  to  the  wall 
Before  he  's  another  hour  old, 

All  told- 
Provided  your  promise  you  hold. 


A    FABLE    FOR    STRATEGISTS.  143 

"  You  see  that  the  Serpent 's  a  hundred  feet  long, 

With  so  many  feet  to  assail, 
And  what  I  require  to  be  even  with  him, 
That  I  in  the  fight  may  prevail  — 

Not  fail, 
Is  fifty  more  feet  to  my  Tail." 

T  was  plain,  from  the  look  upon  Jupiter's  face, 

He  marvell'd  that  creature  so  mean 
Should  push  himself  forward  to  hazard  the  feat, 

Where  so  many  nobler  were  seen  j 
But  e'en 

A  monkey  's  a  monkey,  I  ween. 

So,  moving  his  court,  with  spectators  and  all, 

Quite  close  to  the  enemy's  land, 
Great  Jupiter  motion'd  the  MONKEY  to  take 

His  place,  where  he  'd  chosen  to  stand 
So  grand, 

And  work  out  the  scheme  he  had  plann'd. 

The  MONKEY  obey'd,  with  a  confident  air, 

And  scarce  had  he  faced  at  the  foe, 
When,  giving  a  glance  at  his  flexible  TAIL, 

He  found  it  beginning  to  grow, 
You  know, 

For  he  had  bespoken  it  so. 

Till  fully  six  coils  had  been  added  thereto, 
He  held  it  in  train  with  a  paw ; 


144  A    FABLE    FOR   STRATEGISTS. 

But  then  for  his  strength  rather  heavy  it  weigh'd, 
And  he  on  the  ground  let  it  draw  — 

O  law! 
Such  TAIL  mortal  man  never  saw. 

To  fifty  full  feet  it  extended  at  last, 

All  curl'd  on  the  earth  in  a  pile ; 
And  there  was  the  Serpent,  and  here  was  his  foe, 

Both  staring  in  comical  style 
The  while, 

As  though  't  were  a  joke  to  beguile. 

The  MONKEY  he  chatter'd,  the  MONKEY  hefuss'd, 

When  Jupiter  thunder'd  —  "  Begin  !  " 
But  there  was  the  SERPENT,  and  here  was  his  foe, 

With  hiss  making  answer  to  grin  — 
As  in 

Such  manner  each  reckon'd  to  win. 

The  animals  titter'd,  the  animals  growl'd, 

And  even  the  birds  in  the  tree 
Alternately  croaked  with  impatience  of  note, 

And  chirp'd  in  the  greatest  of  glee 
To  see 

How  comic  't  was  getting  to  be. 

Great  Jupiter  frown'd  at  the  battle's  delay, 

And  thunder'd  "  Begin  ! "  as  before. 
But  there  was  the  SERPENT,  and  here  was  his  foe, 

Each  eying  the  other  one  o'er, 
And  o'er, 

And  —  not  doing  anything  more. 


A    FABLE    FOR   STRATEGISTS.  145 

The  MONKEY  he  started,  the  MONKEY  fell  back, 

His  TAIL  was  too  heavy  to  drag  ; 
He  lifted  a  number  of  coils  in  his  arms, 

And  struggled  along,  with  a  fag 
And  lag 

As  limp  as  an  overwash'd  rag. 

The  venomous  SERPENT,  still  eying  his  foe, 

Began  to  curl  up  from  behind, 
And  backed  jump'd  the  monkey,  entangled  in  TAIL, 

And  chatter'd,  "  O  Jupiter  kind, 
I  find 

More  TAIL  I  must  have  to  unwind  !  " 


Now  Jupiter  saw,  and  the  Animals  too, 

He  could  n't  use  all  that  he  had  ; 
But,  willing  to  humor  his  champion  still, 

Proceeded,  with  feelings  half  glad, 
Half  mad, 

Ten  feet  to  the  fifty  to  add. 

The  MONKEY  he  loaded  his  shoulders  with  coil, 

And  painfully  started  anew; 
Yet  such  was  the  weight  of  the  pile  on  the  ground, 

He  stopp'd  ere  he  'd  gone  inches  two, 
And  threw 

His  coils,  like  a  Texan  lassoo. 

The  SERPENT,  still  keeping  an  eye  on  his  foe, 
Sway'd  cunningly  backward  a  bit  ; 

7 


146  A    FABLE    FOR    STRATEGISTS. 

And  back  hopp'd  the  MONKEY,  entangled  in  TAIL, 
Scarce  knowing  if  he  'd  made  a  hit 

With  it, 
And  frighten'd  half  into  a  fit. 

The  Animals  titter'd,  the  Animals  growl'd, 

And  Jupiter  thunder'd,  "  Explain  !  " 
"  Indeed,"  sigh'd  the  MONKEY,  "  that  Snake  is  so 

long, 
To  equal  his  strength  in  the  main, 

T  is  plain 
A  little  more  TAIL  I  must  gain !  " 

Though  Jupiter  saw,  and  the  Animals  too, 

Already  it  mock'd  his  control, 
He  added  full  twenty  more  feet  to  the  TAIL. 

That  mounted  immensely  in  scroll 
On  scroll, 

A  hopelessly  complicate  whole. 

The  MONKEY  he  loaded  his  shoulders  with  coils, 

With  others  his  body  he  wound  ; 
But  scarce  had  he  lifted  his  foot  for  a  step, 

When  down  they  all  fell  on  the  ground 
Around, 

In  snarls  and  confusion  profound. 

The  SERPENT,  still  keeping  an  eye  on  his  foe, 

Indulged  in  an  ominous  snap  ; 

And    loud    scream'd    the    MONKEY,    entangled    in 
TAIL, 


A    FABLE    FOR   STRATEGISTS.  147 

"  I  Ve  met  with  a  grievous  mishap," 

Poor  chap  — 
To  fancy  a  serpent  would  nap  ! 

The  Animals  titter'd,  the  Animals  growl'd, 

And  Jupiter  threaten'd  a  breeze. 
"  You  see,"  said  the  MONKEY,  "  so  long  is  the  Snake, 

He  reaches  beyond  me  to  seize  — 
With  ease  — 

A  little  more  TAIL,  if  you  please  !  " 

Though  Jupiter's  patience  is  that  of  a  god, 

'T  was  now  very  nearly  worn  out, 
Yet  waved  he  the  signal,  thrice  given  before, 

And  twenty  more  feet,  with  a  flout 
About, 

Were  join'd  to  the  TAIL  at  a  sprout. 

The  Monkey  he  gazed  at  the  mountain  of  coils 

So  wond'rously  changing  his  base, 
Then  wildly  and  frantic'ly  twisted  and  tugg'd, 

To  tumble  it  over  the  place, 
Apace, 

Where  hiss'd  the  old  Snake  in  his  face. 

And  vainly  he  strove  ;  for  the  mountain  of  coils 

Not  only  resisted  him  quite, 
But  firmly  it  held  him  enchain'd  to  the  spot, 

And  on  came  the  SERPEPVT  to  bite 
The  wight 

That  took  so  much  T AIJL  for  a  fight ! 


148  A    FABLE    FOR    STRATEGISTS. 

The  monkey  he  gibber'd,  the  monkey  he  shriek'd, 

In  fear  of  a  horrible  fate  — 
"  O  Jupiter,  what 's  to  become  of  me  now  ?  — 

O  mercy  !  don't  ponder  and  wait 
Too  late, 

Or  I  shall  be  murder'd  and  ate  !  " 


A  nod  from  the  god,  and  a  magical  axe 

One  moment  was  seen  in  the  air, 
Then  straight  at  the  root  of  the  wonderful  TAIL 

It  flew  —  and  the  Monkey  was  bare 
Of  e'er 

The  least  bit  of  tail  he  could  wear  ! 

And  just  at  the  moment  this  thing  was  achieved, 

The  Serpent,  with  croak  like  a  frog, 
Went  off  through  the  bushes,  but  left  in  his  trail 

Full  half  of  his  length  in  the  bog  — 
A  log, 

With  which  he  'd  pretended  to  jog ! 

The  Animals  titter'd,  the  Animals  growl'd, 
The  Monkey  look'd  crush'd  and  forlorn  ! 

'T  was  plain,  from  his  bitter  expression  of  face, 
He  wish'd  that  he  'd  never  been  born  ; 

Nor  shorn 
Of  what  he  so  proudly  had  worn. 

Then  silence  was  order'd,  and  Jupiter  turn'd. 
And  unto  the  Monkey  said  he  : 


A    FABLE    FOR    STRATEGISTS.  149 

"  I  gave  you  your  way,  and  a  very  nice  way 
That  way  has  been  proved  unto  me 

To  be, 
And  ends  —  as  we  all  of  us  see  ! 

"  Since  you  're  but  a  monkey,  my  sentence  is  light  : 
Go  back  to  your  kindred  and  friends, 

And  possibly  you  for  a  hero  may  pass  — 
As  one  who,  to  make  his  amends, 

Pretends 
The  gods  have  defeated  his  ends ! " 

The  Animals,  struck  with  a  sentence  so  just, 

To  Jupiter  raised  an  All  Hail ! 
And  cherish'd  the  lesson,  that  ever  it  lies 

In  length  of  the  head  to  prevail  — 
Not  fail  — 

And  not  in  the  length  of  the  tail. 


BYRON   CHOLER. 

AY,  but  the  moon  was  afraid  that  night, 
Paler  than  ever  you  see  her  now  ; 
Glazed  like  an  eye  at  a  ghostly  sight, 

Crown'd  with  a  cloud  like  a  shaggy  brow. 

Sinister  e'en  was  the  gleam  she  threw 

Over  the  carpet  there  at  my  feet, 
When,  from  my  bosom,  my  own  wife  flew, 

Out  of  the  window,  into  the  street. 

Was  there  a  sound  on  the  walk  below? 

Were  there  some  pieces  pick'd  up  next  morn  ? 
How  in  my  slumber  was  I  to  know  ? 

Innocent  I  as  the  babe  unborn. 

Yes,  it  is  said  that  my  tears  were  few ; 

Said  that  I  whistled  and  sang  that  week  • 
Let  them  believe  if  they  think  it  true, 

Little  care  I  for  the  words  they  speak. 

Both  of  my  parents  who  died,  you  say, 

Carried  blue  finger-marks  'neath  their  chins  : 

Well,  there  are  some  who  will  die  that  way  : 
Heaven  have  mercy  for  all  their  sins  ! 


BYRON    CHOLER.  15  I 

Bah !  do  you  think  I  would  fear  a  ghost  ? 

One  there  is  with  me  half  of  the  time  : 
'T  is  but  a  trick  of  the  eye,  at  most,  — 

Holding  the  tableau  after  the  crime. 

O,  what  a  spectre  Girletta  makes, 

Clad  in  the  daintiest,  best  of  palls  ! 
Pretty  as  ever,  her  head  she  shakes ; 

Pity  she  slipt  that  night  at  the  Falls ! 

True,  there  are  others  to  win  my  love, 
Such  as  the  wife  of  my  dearest  friend : 

Strange  he  should  start  for  the  realms  above, 
After  the  wine  I  was  ask'd  to  send ! 

Accidents  happen  to  one  and  all  : 

Think  of  my  little  one,  angel  Jim  ! 
Why  should  my  gun  have  been  left  at  all, 

Loaded  and  capp'd,  in  the  reach  of  him  ? 

Well,  I  can  scorn  what  the  world  may  say, 

I  am  above  it  so  high  and  far  ; 
All  of  the  spots  they  would  charge  my  ray, 

Lurk  in  the  telescope,  not  the  star. 

Yet  there  's  a  grief  at  my  bosom's  core, 
Dwindling  my  life  to  a  smaller  span  ; 

Earth  unto  me  can  be  bright  no  more,  — 
Some  one  has  stolen  my  black-and-tan  ! 


THE  HAIRESS. 


IN  Rutgers'  halls  a  maid  I  knew, 
With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd  ; 
She  'd  lips  of  red  and  eyes  of  blue, 

With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd  ; 
Such  a  taper  waist  and  a  lovely  arm 
And  shoulders  white  were  enough  to  charm 
The  sourest  saint  and  his  heart  alarm  — 
With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd. 

n. 

She  had  a  brow  of  Grecian  mould, 

With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd  ; 
The  nose  that  Venus  wore  of  old, 

With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd  ; 
Her  rosy  mouth  was  a  kiss  divine, 
Preserved,  as  't  were,  in  a  ruby  wine, 
Through  which  its  sweets,  to  tempt,  might  shine 
With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd. 

in. 

She  sat  upon  the  scholar's  bench, 
With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd, 


THE    HAIRESS.  153 

To  study  music,  Greek,  and  French, 
With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd  ; 

She  flirted  with  Signor  Shaykantrill, 

Who  taught  her  opera  and  quadrille, 

And  managed  of  novels  to  read  her  fill, 
With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd. 

IV. 

They  took  her  from  the  boarding-school, 
With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd  ; 

And  had  her  robed  in  silk  and  tulle, 
With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd. 

She  entered  society's  bright  pell-mell, 

And  took  the  palm  of  the  reigning  belle, 

And  cast  upon  ev'ry  heart  a  spell, 
With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd. 

v. 
She  drove  a  phaeton  in  the  Park, 

With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd  • 
Came  back  to  dinner  just  at  dark, 

With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd. 
She  went  to  the  matine'e,  ball,  and  rout, 
To  dance,  to  simper,  to  smile,  and  pout ; 
And  then  to  the  Springs  when  the  ton  went  out, 

With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd. 

VI. 

Not  long  had  such  a  nymph  to  wait, 
With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd, 

For  one  to  be  her  lord  and  mate,* 
With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd. 

7* 


154  THE    HAIRESS. 

'T  was  the  son  of  a  heavy  dry-goods  man 
One  night  at  a  hop  pick'd  up  her  fan ; 
And  she  promised  to  share  his  heart  and  span, 
With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd. 


VII. 

Return'd  to  town  an  autumn-bride, 

With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd, 
She  took  a  coach,  and  Ma  inside, 

With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd  ; 
Went  straight  to  Stewart's  to  buy  the  things 
That  women  wear  in  the  place  of  wings, 
And  order'd  of  Tiffany  pearls  by  strings, 
With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd. 

VIII. 

She  had  a  wedding  a  la  mode, 

With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd  ; 
And  then  to  Jersey  Ferry  road, 

With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd ; 
For  Washington  City  they  took  the  train, 
Where  the  honeymoon  should  wax  and  wane, 
And  over  the  rails  she  sped  amain, 
With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd. 

IX. 

The  nation's  wisdom  greeted  her, 
With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd  ; 

She  made  the  season  all  astir, 

With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd  ; 


THE    HAIRESS.  155 

She  flirted  with  Senators  sharp  and  snub, 
While  her  liege  and  lord  was  at  the  club, 
And  shone  supreme  at  dance  and  rub, 
With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd. 


x. 

Her  husband  saw  her  doing  thus, 

With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd  ; 
She  begg'd  him  not  to  make  a  fuss, 

With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd  ; 
But  he  was  resolved  on  a  homeward  trip, 
And  little  he  heeded  her  pouting  lip, 
And  home  she  came  in  his  bearish  grip, 
With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd. 


XI. 

Upon  the  train  she  felt  a  chill, 

With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd  ; 

It  made  her  quickly  very  ill, 

With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd  ; 

The  bonnet  she  wore  was  so  very  small 

That  it  scarcely  seem'd  a  bonnet  at  all ; 

And  how  could  she  cover  her  head  in  a  shawl, 
With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd  ? 


XII. 

Arrived  in  town  she  went  to  bed, 

With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd  ; 

And  cough'd  enough  to  split  her  head, 
With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd  ; 


156  THE    HAIRESS. 

The  doctors  came  in  a  stately  host, 
And  with  powder  and  pill  the  patient  dosed  ; 
But  in  less  than  a  week  she  became  a  ghost, 
With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd. 

XIII. 

In  garments  rich  she  slept  her  last, 
With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd  ; 

And  to  a  better  world  had  pass'd, 
With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd  ; 

Where  the  snow  melts  first  in  the  breath  of  spring 

And  the  sweetest  birds  the  latest  sing, 

She  waits  the  great  awakening, 

With  her  hair  unbecomingly  dress'd  ! 


ADVICE  TO   A   MAID. 

BY  AN   OLD   BACHELOR. 

PERENNIAL  maiden,  thou  art  no  less  fair 
Than  those  whose  fairness  barely  equals  thine  ; 
And  like  a  cloud  on  Athos  is  thy  hair, 
Touch'd  with  Promethean  fire  to  make  it  shine 
Above  the  temple  of  a  soul  divine  ; 
And  yet,  methinks,  it  doth  resemble,  too, 
The  strands  Berenice  'mid  the  stars  doth  twine, 
As  Mitchell's  small  Astronomy  doth  show ; 
Procure  the  book,  dear  maid,  when  to  the  town  you  go. 

Young  as  thou  art,  thou  might'st  be  younger  still, 
If  divers  years  were  taken  from  thy  life  : 
And  who  shall  say,  if  marry  man  thou  will, 
Thou  may'st  not  prove  some  man's  own  wedded  wife  ? 
Such  things  do  happen  in  this  worldly  strife, 
If  they  take  place  —  that  is,  if  they  are  done  ; 
For  with  warm  love  this  earthly  dream  is  rife  — 
And  where  love  shines  there  always  is  a  sun  — 
That  is,  if  shadows  sombre  rest  not  thereupon. 

Supposing  thou  dost  marry,  thou  wilt  yearn 

For  that  which  thou  dost  want ;  in  fact,  desire  — 


158  ADVICE    TO    A    MAID. 

The  wisdom  shaped  for  older  heads  to  learn, 
And  well  design'd  to  tame  Youth's  giddy  fire  : 
The  wisdom,  conflicts  with  the  world  inspire, 
Such  as,  perchance,  I  may  myself  possess, 
Though  I  am  but  a  man,  as  was  my  sire, 
And  own  not  wisdom  such  as  gods  may  bless  ; 
For  man  is  only  naught,  and  naught  is  nothingness. 

Still,  I  may  tell  thee  all  that  I  do  know, 
And,  telling  that,  tell  all  I  comprehend  ; 
Since  all  man  hath  is  all  that  he  can  show, 
And  what  he  hath  not,  is  not  his  to  lend. 
Therefore,  young  maid,  if  you  will  but  attend, 
You  shall  hear  that  which  shall  salute  your  ear ; 
But  if  you  list  not,  I  my  breath  shall  spend 
Upon  the  zephyrs  wandering  there  and  here, 
The  far-off  hearing  less,  perhaps,  than  those  more  near. 

Remember  this  :  thou  art  thy  husband's  wife, 
And  he  the  mortal  thou  art  married  to ; 
Else  thou  fore'er  haclst  led  a  single  life, 
And  he  had  never  come  thy  heart  to  woo. 
Rememb'ring  this,  do  thou  remember,  too, 
He  is  thy  bridegroom,  thou  his  chosen  bride; 
And  if  unto  his  side  thou  provest  true, 
Then  thou  wilt  be  forever  at  his  side ; 
As  Tacitus  observes,  with  some  degree  of  pride. 

See  that  his  buttons  to  his  shirts  adhere, 
As  Trojan  Hector  to  the  walls  of  Troy ; 
And  see  that  not,  Achilles-like,  appear 
Rents  in  his  stocking-heels  ;  but  be  your  joy 


ADVICE    TO    A    MAID.  159 

To  have  his  wardrobe  all  your  thoughts  employ, 
Save  such  deep  thought  as  may,  in  duty  giv'n, 
Suit  to  his  tastes  his  dinners ;  nor  annoy 
Digestion's  tenor  in  its  progress  even  ; 
Then  his  the  joy  of  Harvard,  Boston,  and  high  Heav'n. 

If  a  bread-pudding  thou  wouldst  fondly  make  — 
A  thing  nutritious,  but  no  costly  meal  — 
Of  bread  that 's  stale  a  due  proportion  take, 
And  soak  in  water  warm  enough  to  feel  \ 
Then  add  a  strip  or  two  of  lemon-peel, 
With  curdled  milk  and  raisins  to  your  taste, 
And  stir  the  whole  with  ordinary  zeal, 
Until  the  mass  becomes  a  luscious  paste. 
Such  pudding  strengthens  man,  and  doth  involve  no 
waste. 

See  thou  thy  husband's  feet  are  never  wet  — 
For  wet  brings  cold,  and  colds  such  direful  aches 
As  old  Parrhasius  never  felt  when  set 
On  cruel  racks  or  slow  impaling  stakes. 
Make  him  abstain,  if  sick,  from  griddle-cakes  — 
They,  being  rich,  his  stomach  might  derange  — 
And  if  in  thin-soled  shoes  a  walk  he  takes, 
See  that  his  stockings  he  doth  quickly  change. 
Thus  should  thy  woman's  love  through  woman's  duties 
range. 

And  now,  fair  maiden,  all  the  stars  grow  pale, 
And  teeming  Nature  drinks  the  morning  dews  ; 
And  I  must  hasten  to  my  Orient  vale, 
And  quick  put  on  a  pair  of  over-shoes. 


I6O  ADVICE   TO    A    MAID. 

If  from  my  words  your  woman's  heart  may  choose 
To  find  a  guidance  for  a  future  way, 
The  Olympian  impulse  and  the  lyric  muse 
In  such  approval  shall  accept  their  pay. 
And  so,  good  day,  young  girl  —  ah  me  !  O  my  !  good 
day. 


THE  REJECTED  "NATIONAL  HYMNS." 


NATIONAL   HYMN. 

BY    H Y    W.     L-NGF W. 

BACK  in  the  years  when  Phlagstaff,  the  Dane,  was 
monarch 

Over  the  sea-ribb'd  land  of  the  fleet-footed  Norsemen, 
Once  there  went  forth  young   Ursa   to   gaze  at  the 

heavens  — 
Ursa,  the  noblest  of  all  the  Vikings  and  horsemen. 

Musing,  he  sat  in  his  stirrups  and  viewed  the  horizon, 

Where  the  Aurora  lapt  stars  in  a  North-polar  manner, 

Wildly  he  started,  —  for  there  in  the  heavens  before 

him 

Flutter'd   and    flam'd    the    original    Star-Spangled 
Banner. 


NATIONAL  HYMN. 

BY    THE    HON.     CH S     S-MN-R. 

POND'ROUS  projectiles,  hurl'd  by  heavy  hands, 

Fell  on  our  Liberty's  poor  infant  head, 
Ere  she  a  stadium  had  well  advanced 


1 62        THE    REJECTED    "NATIONAL    HYMNS." 

On  the  great  path  that  to  her  greatness  led ; 
Her  temple's  propylon  was  shattered  ; 

Yet,  thanks  to  saving  Grace  and  Washington, 
Her  incubus  was  from  her  bosom  hurl'd ; 

And,  rising  like  a  cloud-dispelling  sun, 
She  took  the  oil  with  which  her  hair  was  curl'd 
To  grease  the  "  Hub  "  round  which  revolves  the  world. 


NATIONAL   HYMN. 

BY    J-HN    GR — NL — F    WH — T — R. 

MY  Native  Land,  thy  Puritanic  stock 
Still  finds  its  roots  firm-bound  in  Plymouth  Rock, 
And  all  thy  sons  unite  in  one  grand  wish  — 
To  keep  the  virtues  of  Preserved  Fish. 

Preserved  Fish,  the  Deacon  stern  and  true, 
Told  our  New  England  what  her  sons  should  do, 
And  if  they  swerve  from  loyalty  and  right, 
Then  the  whole  land  is  lost  indeed  in  night. 


NATIONAL   HYMN. 

BY    DR.    OL-V-R    W-ND — L    H-LMES. 

A  DIAGNOSIS  of  our  hist'ry  proves 

Our  native  land  a  land  its  native  loves  ; 

Its  birth  a  deed  obstetric  without  peer, 

Its  growth  a  source  of  wonder  far  and  near. 


THE    REJECTEE^.  "  NATIONAL    HYMNS."         163 

To  love  it  more  behold  how  foreign  shores 

Sink  into  nothingness  beside  its  stores ; 

Hyde  Park  at  best  —  though  counted  ultra-grand  — 

The  "  Boston  Common  "  of  Victoria's  land  — 


NATIONAL    HYMN. 

BY    R-LPH    W-LDO    EM-R — N. 

SOURCE  immaterial  of  material  naught, 

Focus  of  light  infinitesimal, 
Sum  of  all  things  by  sleepless  Nature  wrought, 

Of  which  the  normal  man  is  decimal. 

Refract,  in  prism  immortal,  from  thy  stars 
To  the  stars  blent  incipient  on  our  flag, 

The  beam  translucent,  neutrifying  death  ; 
And  raise  to  immortality  the  rag. 


NATIONAL   HYMN. 

BY    W-LL — M    C-LL-N     B-Y-NT. 

THE  sun  sinks  softly  to  his  ev'ning  post, 

The  sun  swells  grandly  to  his  morning  crown  ; 

Yet  not  a  star  our  Flag  of  Heav'n  has  lost, 
And  not  a  sunset  stripe  with  him  goes  down. 

So  thrones  may  fall,  and  from  the  dust  of  those 
New  thrones  may  rise,  to  totter  like  the  last; 

But  still  our  Country's  nobler  planet  glows 
While  the  eternal  stars  of  Heaven  are  fast. 


164        THE   REJECTED    "  NATIONAL    HYMNS. 
NATIONAL    HYMN. 

BY  G— RGE     P.    M-RR-S. 

IN  the  days  that  tried  our  fathers, 

Many  years  ago, 
Our  fair  land  achieved  her  freedom, 

Blood-bought,  you  know. 
Shall  we  not  defend  her  ever 

As  we  'd  defend 
That  fair  maiden,  kind  and  tender, 

Calling  us  friend  ? 

Yes  !     Let  all  the  echoes  answer, 

From  hill  and  vale  ; 
Yes  !     Let  other  nations,  hearing, 

Joy  in  the  tale. 
Our  Columbia  is  a  lady, 

High-born  and  fair ; 
We  have  sworn  allegiance  to  her  — 

Touch  her  who  dare. 


NATIONAL  HYMN. 

BY    N.    P.    W-LL-S. 

ONE  hue  of  our  Flag  is  taken 

From  the  cheeks  of  my  blushing  Pet. 

And  its  stars  beat  time  and  sparkle 
Like  the  studs  on  her  chemisette.' 


THE  REJECTED  ,  "  NATIONAL  HYMNS."    165 

Its  blue  is  the  ocean  shadow 
That  hides  in  her  dreamy  eyes, 

It  conquers  all  men,  like  her, 
And  still  for  a  Union  flies. 


NATIONAL   HYMN. 

BY    TH-M-S    B-IL-Y    ALD—CH. 

THE  little  brown  squirrel  hops  in  the  corn, 

The  cricket  quaintly  sings, 
The  emerald  pigeon  nods  his  head, 

And  the  shad  in  the  river  springs, 
The  dainty  sunflow'r  hangs  its  head 

On  the  shore  of  the  summer  sea ; 
And  better  far  that  I  were  dead, 

If  Maud  did  not  love  me. 

I  love  the  squirrel  that  hops  in  the  corn, 

And  the  cricket  that  quaintly  sings  ; 
And  the  emerald  pigeon  that  nods  his  head, 

And  the  shad  that  gayly  springs. 
I  love  the  dainty  sunflow'r,  too, 

And  Maud  with  her  snowy  breast ; 
I  love  them  all ;  —  but  I  love  —  I  love  — 

I  love  my  country  best. 


NATIONAL  HYMN. 

BY    R.    H.    ST-D— -RD. 

BEHOLD  the  flag  !     Is  it  not  a  flag  ? 
Deny  it,  man,  if  you  dare ; 


1 66        THE    REJECTED    "  NATIONAL    HYMNS.' 

And  midway  spread,  'twixt  earth  and  sky, 
It  hangs  like  a  written  pray'r. 

Would  impious  hand  of  foe  disturb 

Its  memories'  holy  spell, 
And  blight  it  with  a  dew  of  blood  ? 

Ha,  tr-r-aitor  !!....  It  is  well. 


AGE   BLUNTLY   CONSIDERED. 

AS  Age  advances,  ails  and  aches  attend, 
Backs  builded  broadest  burdensomely  bend ; 
Cuttingly  cruel  comes  consuming  Care, 
Dealing  delusions,  drivelry,  despair. 

Empty  endeavor  enervately  ends, 
Fancy  forlornly  feigns  forgotten  friends  ; 
Gout,  grimly  griping,  gluttonously  great, 
Hastens  humanity's  hard-hearted  hate. 

Intentions  imbecile  invent  ideas 
Justly  jocunding  jolly  jokers'  jeers  ; 
Knowledge  —  keen  kingdom  knurlyably  known  — 
Lingers,  lamenting  life's  long  lasting  loan. 

Mamrnonly  mumming,  magnifying  motes, 
Nurtures  numb  Nature's  narrowest  nursery  notes, 
Opens  old  Ogre's  odious  offering  out  — 
Peevish  punctilio,  parrot-pining  pout. 

Qualmishly  querying,  quarrelsomely  quaint, 
Rousing  rife  ridicule's  repeal'd  restraint ; 
Speaking  soft  silliness  —  such  shallow  show, 
That  tottering  toysters,  tickled,  titter  too. 


1 68  AGE    BLUNTLY    CONSIDERED. 

Useless,  ungainly,  unbelov'd,  unblest, 
Virtue's  vague  visor,  vice's  veiling  vest, 
Wheezingly  whimpering,  wanting  wisdom,  wit, 
'Xistence,  'Xigent,  'Xclaims  —  'Xit ! 

Youths,  you  're  yclept  youth's  youngest ;    yet  you  '11 

yield 
Zestless  zig-zaggers,  zanyable  zeal'd. 


QUE    VOULEZ-VOUS? 

ATTEND,  thou  lively  son  of  Gaul, 
And  lay  thy  skillet  by  ; 
The  dainty  omelet  can  wait, 
While  counsel  thou  and  I 
Upon  the  sinister  events 

Producing  such  mischance 
As,  in  a  round  of  ruin,  binds 
The  hapless  land  of  France. 

Nor  let  thy  shoulders  rise  and  fall 

In  such  a  specious  shrug, 
Which  meaneth  what  begins  with  "hum 

And  endeth  with  a  "  bug  "  ; 
For,  though  American,  I  have 

No  Office  tempting  me, 
And,  needing  not  the  German  vote, 

Give  France  my  sympathy. 

Whence  is  it  that  the  land  of  arms, 

Of  chivalry  and  song, 
That,  shining  like  a  Knight  in  mail, 

Has  awed  the  world  so  long,  — 
From  daring  Prussia  to  the  lists, 

With  trump  and  bugle  trill, 


T  70  QUE    VOULEZ-VOUS  V 

Now  trembles  vanquished  at  the  feet 
Of  pious  Kaiser  Bill  ? 

Whence  is  it  ?  —  O  my  brother  Gaul, 

Inform  me  !  —  Can  it  be 
Thy  nation  comes  to  this  at  last 

By  ceasing  to  be  Free  ! 
By  e'en  preferring  peace  and  wealth 

Beneath  an  Empire's  yoke, 
To  patriot-fighting  ev'ry  day 

For  Liberty  dead-broke  ? 

Or  comes  this  dread  defeat  to  her 

Retributive,  because 
She,  in  her  gay  career,  forgot 

The  graver  moral  laws, 
And,  in  her  Capital's  display 

Of  aggravating  mirth, 
Gave  scandal  to  each  smaller  town, 

And  duller,  too,  on  earth  ? 

Or  is  it—  ah,  perhaps  it  is !  — 

By  reason  of  the  Sin 
That  left  the  Pope  without  a  guard, 

And  let  King  Victor  in  ; 
That,  calling  back  her  troops  from  Rome, 

Left  Rome  as  much  a  chance 
To  choose  a  ruler  for  herself 

As  though  she  were  in  France  ? 

No  answer  yet  thou  givest  me ; 
"But  read  I  in  thy  face, 


QUE    VOULEZ-VOUS  ? 

There  may  be  other  reasons  still 
For  Gaul's  supreme  disgrace  ! 

Was  it  her  people's  ignorance, 
That  fated  her  to  find 

In  German  arms  the  mastery 
First  found  in  German  Mind  ? 

O  fellow-man,  confide  in  me  ! 

And  tell  me,  as  a  friend, 
If  one  or  all  these  causes  named 

Brought  on  this  bitter  end  ? 
So  shall  thy  modest  name  be  known 

As  that  of  honor'd  sage, 
Whose  subtle  wisdom  solved  the  great 

Conundrum  of  the  age  ! 

Then  look'd  that  lively  son  of  Gaul 

Most  keenly  all  around, 
And  softly  went  and  closed  the  door 

With  secrecy  profound  ; 
And  whispered  sharply  in  mine  ear, 

In  quite  a  candid  way  : 
"  Ze  raison  vy  ze  French  get  vip, 

Is  —  'cause  zey  run  avay  !  " 


DYING   OUT. 

"HP*  WAS  by  the  wayside,  near  a  Southern  town, 

JL       I  spied  a  sage  beneath  a  tree  reclining ; 
His  old  straw  hat  was  guiltless  of  a  crown, 

His  pantaloons  had  less  of  cloth  than  lining. 
Addressing  him  about  the  latest  news, 

I  quickly  found  him,  by  his  answer  hazy, 
A  man  of  pow'rful  and  elaborate  views, 

And  gifts  of  reasoning  to  make  you  crazy. 

"  I  reckon  you  're  a  Yankee,  come,"  said  he, 

"  Upon  some  sneaking  mission  or  another, 
To  see  how  being  Equalized  and  Free 

Agrees  with  him  you  call  your  Color'd  Brother. 
Extinction  waits  on  him,  with  all  his  Rights 

So  freely  given  by  your  laws  confounded  ! 
He  '11  keep  attacking  the  defenceless  Whites 

Till  all  the  Color'd  race  are  kill'd  or  wounded. 

"In  New  Orleans  —  behold  the  lesson  taught !  — 
When  in  Convention  certain  Blacks  assembled, 

A  sound  of  peaceful  throngs  outside  was  caught, 
And  in  the  hall  the  Blacks  bloodthirsty  trembled. 

Then  through  the  windows,  lobbies,  outer  gate, 
By  the  unarm'd  Caucasian  race  surrounded, 


DYING    OUT.  173 

The  Freedmen  sallied  in  their  murd'rous  hate, 
And  nineteen  Color'd  men  were  badly  wounded. 

"  In  Central  Georgia,  sev'ral  months  ago, 

The  sons  of  Afric  held  a  Loyal  meeting, 
And  divers  White  Men  went  to  see  the  show, 

And  give  the  speakers  friendly  Southern  greeting. 
But  lo  1  when  speaking  had  gone  on  a  spell, 

And  all  the  air  with  loyal  words  resounded, 
Upon  the  Whites,  like  fiends,  the  Negroes  fell, 

And  thirteen  Color'd  men  were  badly  wounded. 

"  In  old  Virginia,  at  a  rural  place, 

Where  many  Africans  had  come  for  voting, 
The  merest  handful  of  the  Higher  Race 

Were  looking  on,  and  minor  matters  noting ; 
When,  at  a  cry  about  some  vote  refused, 

The  Blacks,  infuriate,  on  the  handful  bounded, 
Their  knives  and  pistols  mercilessly  used, 

And  fourteen  Color'd  men  were  badly  wounded. 

"  So,  at  the  Capital  of  all  the  States  — 

Your  boasted  Washington,  the  placid  city  — 
There  was,  in  journals  of  the  proper  dates, 

Correct  report  of  what  should  move  your  pity  : 
The  town  election  rallied  countless  Blacks, 

Who,  arm'd  and  madden'd,  and  to  riot  hounded, 
Upon  the  helpless  White  men  made  attacks, 

And  fifteen  Color'd  men  were  badly  wounded. 

"  Yet  furthermore  :   of  late,  in  Tennessee, 

Where  Stokes  was  beaten  at  the  polls  by  Senter, 


174  DYING    OUT. 

The  savage  Negroes,  arm'd  from  head  to  knee, 
Seem'd  on  a  fight  than  on  their  votes  intenter ; 

To  vent  some  petty,  diabolic  spite, 

Upon  the  plea  of  some  vague  charge  unfounded, 

They  turn'd  in  fury  on  a  single  White, 

And  sixteen  Color'd  men  were  badly  wounded. 

"  The  race  of  Color'd  men  is  Dying  Out !  " 

The  sage  concluded,  with  a  dismal  gesture ; 
And  left  me  victim  of  amazing  doubt, 

While  he  went  onward  in  his  ragged  vesture. 
I  'd  often  heard  his  mournful  last  remark, 

When  used  by  Southern  politicians,  merely 
To  hint  the  Freedman's  future  lot  was  dark,  — 

But  not  till  then  had  understood  it  clearly ! 


THE    AMERICAN    TRAVELLER. 

TO  Lake  Aghmoogenegamook, 
All  in  the  State  of  Maine, 
A  man  from  Wittequergaugaum  came 
One  evening  in  the  rain. 

"  I  am  a  traveller,"  said  he, 

"  Just  started  on  a  tour, 
And  go  to  Nomjamskillicook 

To-morrow  morn  at  four." 

He  took  a  tavern  bed  that  night, 
And  with  the  morrow's  sun, 

By  way  of  Sekledobskus  went, 
With  carpet-bag  and  gun. 

A  week  pass'd  on  ;  and  next  we  find 

Our  native  tourist  come 
To  that  sequester'd  village  call'd 

Genasagarn  agum . 

From  thence  he  went  to  Absequoit, 
And  there  —  quite  tired  of  Maine  — 

He  sought  the  mountains  of  Vermont, 
Upon  a  railroad  train. 


176  THE   AMERICAN    TRAVELLER. 

Dog  Hollow,  in  the  Green  Mount  State, 
Was  his  first  stopping-place, 

And  then  Skunk's  Misery  displayed 
Its  sweetness  and  its  grace. 

By  easy  stages  then  he  went 

To  visit  Devil's  Den  ; 
And  Scrabble  Hollow,  by  the  way, 

Did  come  within  his  ken. 

Then,  via  Nine  Holes  and  Goose  Green 
He  travelPd  through  the  State, 

And  to  Virginia,  finally, 
Was  guided  by  his  fate. 

Within  the  Old  Dominion's  bounds 
He  wandered  up  and  down  ; 

To-day,  at  Buzzard  Roost  ensconced, 
To-morrow,  at  Hell  Town. 

At  Pole  Cat,  too,  he  spent  a  week, 
Till  friends  from  Bull  Ring  came, 
nd  made  him  spend  a  day  with  them 
In  hunting  forest  game. 

Then,  with  his  carpet-bag  in  hand, 
To  Dog  Town  next  he  went ; 

Though  stopping  at  Free  Negro  Town, 
Where  half  a  day  he  spent. 

From  thence,  into  Negationburg 
His  route  of  travel  lay, 


THE   AMERICAN   TRAVELLER. 

Which  having  gain'd,  he  left  the  State 
And  took  a  southward  way. 

North  Carolina's  friendly  soil 

He  trod  at  fall  of  night, 
And,  on  a  bed  of  softest  down, 

He  slept  at  Hell's  Delight. 

Morn  found  him  on  the  road  again, 

To  Lazy  Level  bound  ; 
At  Bull's  Tail,  and  Lick  Lizzard,  too, 

Good  provender  he  found. 

But  the  plantations  near  Burnt  Coat 

Were  even  finer  still, 
And  made  the  wond'ring  tourist  feel 

A  soft,  delicious  thrill. 

At  Tear  Shirt,  too,  the  scenery 
Most  charming  did  appear, 

With  Snatch  It  in  the  distance  far, 
And  Purgatory  near. 

But,  'spite  of  all  these  pleasant  scenes, 

The  tourist  stoutly  swore, 
That  home  is  brightest,  after  all, 

And  travel  is  a  bore. 

So  back  he  went  to  Maine,  straightway, 

A  little  wife  he  took  ; 
And  now  is  making  nutmegs  at 

Moosehicmagunticook. 

8* 


THE    MAUDLIN    MUSE. 

OMY  little  Maud  is  a  dainty  queen, 
With  quaint  and  tiny  shoon, 
And  her  cheek  is  red  as  a  baton  rouge  ; 
And  her  eye  is  the  full-blown  moon. 

And  O,  I  love  my  own  little  Maud, 

As  the  petrel  loves  the  sea, 
And  I  should  die  like  a  penguin  pale 

If  Maud  did  not  love  me. 

In  Spring's  first  blush  I  met  little  Maud, 
When  the  time  of  year  was  glad, 

And  the  flounder  flash'd  on  the  ocean  wave, 
And  the  low  of  the  kine  was  sad. 

The  quaint  little  bugs  wove  nets  of  gauze 

To  snare  the  dainty  bee, 
And  the  lily  droop'd  its  bald  white  head 

And  sigh'd  "  Ah !  woe  is  me  !  " 


*&* 


The  Junebug  pick'd  his  felt  guitar, 
And  the  swallows  swarm'd  with  bliss, 

When  I  met  Maud  at  the  castle  gate  — 
O,  sair  such  a  world  as  this  !  — 


THE    MAUDLIN    MUSE. 

When  I  met  Maud  at  the  castle  gate, 

With  a  tear  in  either  eye, 
And  swore  by  the  red,  red  moon  above 

To  love  till  I  die  —  I  die. 

The  churchyard  pheasant  heard  my  oath, 
As  he  scratch'd  his  downy  head, 

And  the  indigo  pigeon  began  to  hop, 
And  hopp'd  till  he  was  dead. 

The  stars  look'd  down  on  the  sobbing  world, 
With  a  quaintness  all  their  own, 

But  Maud  and  I  were  too  blest  for  speech, 
For  our  love  had  a  silent  tone. 

I  cover'd  her  up  with  the  kiss  I  gave, 

I  kiss'd  her  there,  I  swear  ; 
And  the  moon  went  under  a  ghostly  cloud, 

And  the  moon  it  dazed  me  sair. 

'T  were  well  we  met  that  time,  little  Maud, 
'T  were  well  we  'd  died  there,  too  ; 

For  I  mark'd,  as  I  went,  the  cow's  low  call, 
And  the  faint  magnolia's  hue. 

The  snake  look'd  up  as  I  went,  little  Maud, 
The  snake  with  the  hood  of  black, 

And  I  heard  him  say  to  the  shining  eel, 
"  Alack  !  alack  !  alack  !  " 

I  heard  him  say  to  the  flashing  eel, 
Far  down  in  the  mosses  gray, 


ISO  THE   MAUDLIN    MUSE. 

"  This  love's  to-morrow  never  comes 
Till  to-day  is  yesterday." 

The  hoptoad  raised  his  eye  of  fire 
And  look'd  at  the  anguish'd  sky, 

And  the  harebell's  sigh  I  '11  ne'er  forget 
Till  I  die  —  I  die  —  I  die. 

O,  weep,  and  weep,  and  weep,  little  Maud, 

Like  a  saucer  brimming  o'er, 
For  the  time  that  came  and  the  time  that  went, 

And  cometh  nevermore. 

The  moonbeam  glints  on  the  dainty  crag, 
And  the  porpoise  skims  the  sea ; 

But  who  shall  glide  to  the  maid  I  love, 
That  waits  so  long  for  me  ? 

O,  who  shall  glide  to  the  maid  I  love, 

And  sob  in  her  gentle  ear, 
That  the  small  brown  rabbits  moan  her  name, 

And  the  reed-bird  sheds  a  tear  ? 

I  wait  thee  here  at  the  stile,  my  love, 

With  the  splashy  stars  abroad, 
And  my  heart  goes  out  with  a  gush  to  thee, 

Little  Maud  !  little  Maud  !  little  Maud  ! 


WOMAN'S    HEART. 

BY    SAIRA   NEVERMAIR. 

WE  went  to  the  world-loved  Ball  last  night, 
Claude  and  I,  in  our  robes  of  gold ; 
He  in  a  coat  as  black  as  jet, 

And  I  in  the  jewels  I  wore  of  old. 

Diamonds  cover'd  my  head  in  pounds, 

Seventy  large  ones  lit  my  neck,  — 
Over  my  skirts  they  burn'd  in  quarts 

Counting  in  all  a  goodly  peck. 

Hopp'd  the  canary  'neath  the  wires,  — 

Spoke  the  canary  not  a  word ; 
When  to  my  heart  the  chill  has  struck, 

How  can  I  sing  ?  —  can  e'er  a  bird  ? 

• 

We  were  together,  Claude  and  I, 
Bonded  together  as  man  and  wife ; 

Little  I  thought,  as  I  utter'd  my  vows, 
What  was  the  real  Ideal  of  life. 

He  is  my  Husband  to  love  and  obey,  — 

Those  were  the  words  of  the  priest,  I  think,  — 

He  is  to  purchase  the  clothes  I  wear, 
Order  my  victuals  and  order  my  drink ! 


I  82  WOMAN'S    HEART. 

Well,  it  is  well  if  it  must  be  so  : 

Woman  the  slave  and  man  the  lord  ;  ' 

She  the  scissors  to  cut  the  threads 
After  the  darning,  and  he  the  sword. 

Was  it  for  this  I  play'd  my  cards, 
Tuned  the  piano's  tender  din, 

Cherish'd  a  delicate  health,  and  ate 
Pickles  and  pencils  to  make  me  thin  ? 

Better  it  were  to  be  bbrn  a  serf, 

Holding  a  soul  by  a  master's  lease  ; 

Better  than  learning  Society's  law, 

Gaining  a  Husband  and  forfeiting  peace. 

Mortimer  sighs  as  he  sees  me  dance, 

Percy  is  sad  as  he  passes  by, 
Herbert  turns  pallid  beneath  my  glance  ; 

All  of  them  married  —  and  so  am  I. 

Well,  if  the  world  must  have  it  so, 
Woman  can  only  stand  and  endure ; 

Ever  the  grossness  of  all  that  is  gross 
Rises  the  tyrant  of  all  that  is  pure. 

Marriage,  they  say,  is  a  sacred  thing ; 

So  is  the  fetter  that  yields  a  smart : 
Give  one  crumb  to  the  starving  wretch, 

And  give  one  Object  to  Woman's  Heart. 

Claude,  they  tell  me,  should  own  my  love  ; 
Well.  I  have  loved  him  nearly  a  week  ; 


WOMAN'S    HEART.  183 

Looking  at  one  man  longer  than  that 
Grows  to  be  tiresome  —  so  to  speak. 

What  if  he  calls  me  Angel  wife ; 

Angels  are  not  for  the  One  to  win  ; 
Yet  is  my  passionate  love  like  theirs,  — 

Theirs  is  a  love  taking  all  men  in. 

Hops  the  canary  'neath  the  wires, 

Speaks  the  canary  not  a  word  ; 
When  to  my  heart  the  chill  has  struck, 

How  can  I  sing  ?  —  can  e'er  a  bird  ? 


COLUMBIA'S   AGONY.     (1862.) 

BY   MARTIN   FARQUHAR  TUP — R. 

I  HOLD  it  good  —  as  who  shall  hold  it  bad  ? 
To  lave  Columbia  in  the  boiling  tears 
I  shed  for  Freedom  when  my  soul  is  sad, 

And  having  shed  proceed  to  shed  again  : 
For  human  sadness  sad  to  all  appears, 

And  tears  men  sometimes  shed  are  shed  by  men. 

The  normal  nation  lives  until  it  dies, 

As  men  may  die  when  they  have  ceased  to  live ; 
But  when  abnormal,  by  a  foe's  surprise, 

It  may  not  reach  its  first-appointed  goal ; 
For  what  we  have  not  is  not  ours  to  give, 

And  if  we  miss  it  all  we  miss  the  whole. 

Columbia,  young,  a  giant  baby  born, 

Aim'd  at  a  manhood  ere  the  child  had  been, 

And,  slipping  downward  in  a  strut  forlorn, 
Learns,  to  its  sorrow,  what  't  is  good  to  know, 

That  babes  who  walk  too  soon,  too  soon  begin 
To  walk,  in  this  dark  vale  of  life  below. 

When  first  the  State  of  Charleston  did  secede, 
And  Merrill's  tariff  was  declared  repeal'd, 


COLUMBIA'S    AGONY.  1 8$ 

The  soul  of  Freedom  ev'rywhere  did  bleed 
For  that  which,  having  seen,  it  sadly  saw  j 

So  true  it  is,  death  wounds  are  never  heard, 
And  law  defied  is  not  unquestion'd  law. 

The  mother-poet,  England,  sadly  view'd 
The  strife  unnatural  across  the  wave, 

And  with  maternal  tenderness  renew'd 
Her  sweet  assurances  of  neutral  love  ; 

A  mother's  love  may  not  its  offspring  save  ; 
JBitt  mother's  love  is  still  a  mothers  love. 

Learn  thou,  Columbia,  in  thine  agony, 

That  England  loves  thee,  with  a  love  as  deep 

As  my  "  Proverbial  Philosophy  " 

Has  won  for  me  from  her  approving  breast ; 

The  love  that  never  slumbers  cannot  sleep, 
And  all  for  highest  good  is  for  the  best. 

Thy  Freedom  fattens  on  the  work  of  slaves, 
Her  Grace  of  Sutherland  informeth  me ; 

And  all  thy  South  Amboy  is  full  of  graves, 

Where  tortured  bondmen  snatch  a  dread  repose  ; 

Learn,  then,  the  race  enslaved  is  never  free, 
And  in  thy  woes  incurr'd,  behold  thy  woes. 

Thy  pride  is  humbled,  humbled  is  thy  pride, 
And  now  misfortunes  come  upon  thee,  thick 

With  dark  reproaches  for  the  right  defied, 
And  cloud  thy  banner  in  a  dim  eclipse ; 

Sic  transit  gloria,  gloria  transit  sic, 

The  mouth  that  speaketh  useth  its  own  lips. 


1 86  COLUMBIA'S  AGONY, 

Thus  speeds  the  world,  and  thus  our  planet  speeds ; 

What  is,  must  be  ;  and  what  can't  be,  is  not ; 
Our  acts  unwise  are  not  our  wisest  deeds, 

And  what  we  do  is  what  ourselves  have  done ; 
Mistakes  remembered  are  not  faults  forgot, 

And  we  must  wait  for  day  to  see  the  sun. 


"TRUE   STORY." 

BY    MRS.    H T    B— CH-R    ST-WE 

IN  a  village  of  New  England,  at  the  closing  of  the 
day, 

Stood  a  youth  of  feeble  aspect  all  upon  the  broad  high 
way; 
And  he  wept  with  so  much  fervor,  and  so  wretched 

did  appear, 

That  the  Oldtown  Folks,  beholding,  in  their  pity,  ven 
tured  near, 


Soon  an  old  man  of  the  village  —  Uncle  Tom  his  hon- 

or'd  name  — 
Placed  a  hand  upon  the  shoulder  of  that  bending 

human  frame  ; 
And,  in  accents  low  and  kindly  as  the  voice  of  age 

can  come, 
Ask'd  the   stranger  why  he  sorrow'd  all  so  far  from 

Hearth  and  Home. 

Was  he  mourning  that  his  kindred  were  all  gather'd  to 

the  dead  ? 
Was  he  weeping  that  his  fellows  would  not  give  him 

work  or  bread  ? 


1 88  "TRUE   STORY." 

Was  he  sad  from  weary  waiting  for  the  helping  hand 

of  man  ? 
Was  the  falsehood  of  a  woman  what  had  made  him 

weak  and  wan  ? 

"  None  of  these,"  the  stranger  answer'd,  "  made  me 

what  you  here  behold, 
I  'm  not  thirsty,  nor  a-hunger'd ;  I  'm  not  weaned  nor 

a-cold  ; 
But  I  'm  madden'd  with  the  knowledge  just  become 

for  me  extant 
That  my  Father  is  my  Uncle  and  my  Mother  is  my 

Aunt ! " 


A  TRUCE. 

THE  Southern  hosts  are  up  in  arms  ! 
The  olive-branch  no  longer  charms, 
And  over  cities,  prairies,  farms, 
The  martial  trumpet  rings. 
A  single  spark  has  lit  the  North, 
Her  sons  of  valor  hurry  forth, 
And,  with  a  soldier's  spirit  wroth, 
Each  man  to  harness  springs. 

From  East  to  West  the  cry  has  gone  : 
The  pledge  is  broke,  the  sword  is  drawn, 
And  now  the  moment  dread  comes  on, 

That  all  our  honor  proves. 
A  score  of  millions  hear  the  cry ; 
Six  hundred  thousand,  marching  by, 
Give  back,  in  thunder  tones,  reply  : 

Our  banner  southward  moves  ! 

Then  pours  the  hurrying  tide  of  war, 
The  billowy  smoke,  the  cannon's  roar, 
The  bayonet's  lightning-flash  before, 

The  Standard's  sunset  glow  ; 
And  over  all  the  tumult  comes 
The  trumpet's  bray,  the  roll  of  drums  ; 


I9O  A   TRUCE. 

While,  from  the  lowland  distance  hums 
The  echo  of  the  foe. 

Blow,  bugles,  blow  !  the  charge  begins  ; 
Now  God  uphold  the  arm  that  wins, 
And  look  with  mercy  on  the  sins 

Of  those  who  fall  to-day  ; 
A  glorious  stake  is  in  the  fight, 
A  nation's  life,  a  nation's  right ; 
And  where  her  champions'  blows  alight, 

There  let  the  vanquish 'd  pray  ! 

A  sudden  pause,  a  sudden  hush  ; 
The  mighty  boulder,  launch'd  to  crush 
Hangs,  like  a  feather  on  a  bush, 

In  fathomless  suspense  ; 
As  though  an  avalanche,  half  hurl'd 
Upon  a  nether  Alpine  world. 
Were  caught,  where  first  it  downward  swirl'd, 

Upon  a  saving  fence  ! 

In  mid  career  the  armies  stand, 
Each  by  the  other's  breathing  fann'd, 
While  all  around  them  smokes  the  land 

Their  iron  heels  have  trod. 
The  gunner's  lanyard  slacken'd  droops, 
The  horseman  to  his  sabre  stoops, 
The  hostile  captains  eye  their  troops, 

With  many  a  thoughtful  nod. 

To  this  the  strife  has  come  at  last, 
That,  in  the  texture  of  the  blast, 


A    TRUCE.  IQI 

A  mighty  flaw  should  overcast 

The  rushing  Ship  of  State, 
And  hold  her  in  a  leaden  calm, 
While  her  defenders  found  the  balm 
To  keep  her  safe  from  ev'ry  harm, 

Or  else,  defer  her  fate. 

Deep  quiet  reigns  along  the  lines, 

The  midnight  frowns,  the  noonday  shines  j 

But  still  Bellona's  great  designs 

Are  left  to  other  men  ; 
For,  in  a  field  where  gods  might  choose 
To  sip  the  fountains  of  the  dews, 
The  Brigadiers,  in  fearless  crews, 

Renew  the  strife  again. 

They  meet  the  foemen  face  to  face  — 
Who  loses  now  shall  win  disgrace  ; 
For  on  his  strength  to  keep  his  place 

His  land's  salvation  hangs  !  — 
They  scan  each  other  through  the  glass, 
From  rank  to  rank  the  watchwords  pass, 
Then,  pressing  forward  in  a  mass, 

The  goblet  mortar  clangs  ! 

"  Load  up  with  bricks  !  "  the  leader  said, 
Ere  half  the  earliest  round  had  sped, 
"  And  truly  aim  at  every  head 

Above  the  table-land." 
Their  duty  well  the  gunners  know, 
The  volley'd  corks  at  angles  go, 
And  pours  the  grape  with  such  a  flow 

No  mortal  man  can  stand. 


A   TRUCE. 

Lo  !  Sherry  flashes  to  the  front, 

With  Bourbon's  self  to  share  the  brunt, 

And  valiant  Southside,  old  and  blunt, 

Stands  out  to  meet  them  there. 
Now  hasten  !  hasten  while  ye  can, 
Old  burly,  clumsy  Rhenish  man  ; 
For  Heidsick  comes  to  lead  the  van, 

And  falter  then  who  dare  ! 

Cabana's  battery  's  in  reserve, 

With  steady  fire  our  charge  to  nerve  ; 

Who  would  a  coward  be,  and  swerve 

Before  the  lighted  match  ? 
Already  reels  the  foe,  struck  dumb, 
Scarce  knowing  whence  his  wounds  have  come  ; 
One  other  charge,  Imperial  Mumm, 

And  over  goes  a  batch  ! 

Now  from  Regalia's  lengthy  nines, 
Rolls  up  the  smoke  in  circling  lines, 
And  half  concealing,  half  defines 

Full  many  staggering  forms  ; 
And,  badly  wounded  in  the  neck, 
With  naught  their  dying  falls  to  check, 
The  Brigadiers  go  down  in  wreck, 

As  ships  go  down  in  storms. 

When  brightly  beams  the  morning  sun, 
And  Peace,  by  doughty  vict'ry  won, 
Once  more  the  Nation  rests  upon, 
Like  sunlight  on  the  grass  ; 


A    TRUCE.  193 

Columbia,  through  her  happy  tears, 
Shall  thank  her  gallant  Brigadiers, 
And  then  go  on,  for  years  and  years, 
To  tax  —  the  broken  glass. 


THE  EDITOR'S  WOOING. 

WE  love  thee,  Ann  Maria  Smith, 
And  in  thy  condescension, 
We  see  a  future  full  of  joys 
Too  numerous  to  mention. 

There  's  Cupid's  arrow  in  thy  glance,  • 

That  by  thy  love's  coercion 
Has  reach'd  our  melting  heart  of  hearts, 

And  ask'd  for  one  insertion. 

With  joy  we  feel  the  blissful  smart, 
And  ere  our  passion  ranges, 

We  freely  place  thy  love  upon 
The  list  of  our  exchanges. 

There  's  music  in  thy  lowest  tone, 

And  silver  in  thy  laughter ; 
And  truth  —  but  we  will  give  the  full 

Particulars  hereafter. 

Oh  !  we  could  tell  thee  of  our  plans 

All  obstacles  to  scatter  ; 
But  we  are  full  just  now,  and  have 

A  press  of  other  matter. 


THE    EDITOR'S    WOOING.  195 

Then  let  us  marry,  Queen  of  Smiths, 

Without  more  hesitation  • 
The  very  thought  doth  give  our  blood 

A  larger  circulation ! 


THE   POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

THAT  side  of  life  the  sun  is  constant  to, 
Forever  ripening  newer  buds  of  pleasure, 
Is  but  a  prelude  to  a  nobler  song, 

Tuned  to  a  rambling,  dithyrambic  measure. 

The  life  of  childhood 's  a  melodious  blank  — 

Though  nothing  unsubstantial  could  be  sweeter  — 

And  't  is  the  mother's  poetry  revised, 

When  first  she  trains  her  darling's  feet  to  meet  her. 

That  side  of  life  First  Love  is  constant  to, 
With  wings  of  hope  the  fever'd  spirit  fanning, 

Gives  one  rhymed  lesson  to  the  Maid  and  Youth, 
While  each  the  other's  glowing  lines  is  scanning. 

But  Sorrow,  earliest,  bids  the  Poem  rise, 

And  grow  in  strength,  as  Pleasure's  band  disperses  ; 
The  strain  sublimest  is  the  voice  of  pain, 

The  Poetry  of  Life  is  its  Re-verses ! 


STICKING   TO    HIM. 

THE  mother  saw  her  only  one 
Before  the  parson  stand, 
To  seal  another  love  than  hers 
With  willing  heart  and  hand  ; 
And  down  her  wrinkled  cheek  there  roll'd 

A  fond,  regretful  tear ; 
For,  though  she  gain'd  a  son-in-law, 
She  lost  a  daughter  dear. 

That  daughter  mark'd  the  sign  of  grief, — 

And  turn'd  a  paler  hue, 
As  back  to  childhood's  helpless  years 

Her  thoughts  reminded  flew,  — 
And,  bending  from  her  husband's  side, 

She  kiss'd  the  hand  that  e'en 
Had  gently  minister'cl  to  her 

In  all  the  years  between. 

"Dear  mother,  do  not  weep,"  she  said  ; 

"  Though  going  far  away, 
In  two  short  months  we  both  return 

To  be  your  double  stay ; 
And  if  your  thoughtless  daughter  fails 

In  duty  to  be  done, 


198  STICKING    TO    HIM. 

Look  up,  dear  mother,  for  the  help 
That 's  stronger  from  a  son  !  " 

Then  smiled  the  mother  on  her  child, 

Such  loving  words  to  hear, 
And  press'd  upon  her  glowing  cheek 

The  sequel  of  the  tear ; 
And,  raising  high  her  trembling  hands, 

When  plighted  was  the  troth, 
She  whisper'd,  though  with  quiv'ring  lips, 

"  God  bless  ye,  darlings,  both  ! " 

A  moment  did  she  disappear, 

And  then  return'd  again 
With  something  hid  behind  her  back 

And  dragg'd  along  amain. 
Then  fix'd  her  idolizing  eyes 

Upon  the  youthful  pair, 
Where,  silent  in  a  sweet  surprise, 

They  stood  to  meet  her  there. 

"  'T  is  little  I  can  spare,"  she  said, 

"  For  scanty  is  my  store  ; 
But  here  accept  a  bridal  gift 

Before  ye  leave  my  door. 
Though  o'er-familiar  to  the  sight, 

And  homely,  it  may  be, 
It  ever  nurtured  peace  between 

My  good  old  man  and  me. 

"  Then  take  it,  daughter,  at  the  start 
Of  this,  thy  married  life, 


STICKING   TO    HIM.  199 

And  give  thy  promise  as  a  bride 

To  use  it  as  a  wife  ; 
Nor  ever  in  thy  darkest  hour 

A  friend  more  potent  crave  ; . 
For  't  is  the  very  broomstick,  girl, 

That  made  thy  sire  behave !  " 


DISENCHANTED. 

ALL  hail'd  her  a  parlor  Calypso, 
The  Siren  Supreme  of  the  throng, 
Who  dazzled  with  jewels  and  satins, 
And  woo'd  as  they  floated  along. 

Her  locks  were  like  night  in  the  tropics, 
Her  brow  shamed  the  lily  in  white  ; 

Her  eyes  were  two  oceans  of  darkness 
Reflecting  two  oceans  of  light. 

Her  lips  were  the  coralline  portals, 
The  shrine  of  a  heaven  of  bliss, 

That  e'en  might  entice  the  immortals 
To  turn,  and  be  lost  in  a  kiss. 

Her  garment,  in  folds  dropping  lustre 
Trail'd  softly  in  ripple  and  curl, 

Seem'd  wrought  from  the  wave  of  a  water 
Whose  azure  had  melted  a  pearl. 

One  hand  reap'd  a  harvest  of  ringlets, 
The  other  ruled  grace  at  her  side  ; 

Her  form  was  the  form  of  a  maiden, 
In  crown  of  full  womanly  pride. 


DISENCHANTED.  2OI 

I  knew  her  —  had  known  her  from  childhood  ; 

Yet,  such  is  the  magical  spell 
Of  Beauty  enthroned  o'er  her  subjects, 

I  dared  not  salute  Anabel. 

But  Thought  spurns  the  bonds  of  the  human, 

And  e'en  as  I  gazed  at  her  there, 
I  dream'd  of  a  day  in  the  future, 

Of  all  my  young  days  the  most  fair. 

For,  had  she  not  wept  at  our  parting  ? 

And  had  she  not  blush'd  when  we  met  ? 
I  saw  my  white  rose  on  her  bosom, 

And  knew  that  she  could  not  forget. 

'Mid  dancing,  and  gay  conversation, 

And  planning  of  new  loves  around, 
I  stood  there  alone  with  my  idol, 

Like  Silence  ghost-brooding  in  sound. 

What  though  she  smiled  others  to  Heaven 
With  lips  that  were  zephyr'd  with  mirth, 

When  mine  was  the  droop  of  the  lashes 
That  gave  me  my  heaven  on  earth ! 

At  last,  when  the  voice  of  a  singer 

Came  sweet  through  the  tapestried  door, 

Her  courtiers  took  leave  of  their  Empress, 
And  swept  o'er  the  velveted  floor. 

They  left  her  —  she  would  not  go  with  them, 
And  I,  in  the  red  curtain's  glow, 


2O2  DISENCHANTED. 

Was  thrill'd  with  such  loving  emotions 
As  none  but  a  lover  can  know. 

I  thought,  in  my  joy,  to  surprise  her  ; 

But  paused,  as  I  lifted  a  fold, 
And  saw  her  draw  forth  from  her  bosom 

A  quaint  little  casket  of  gold. 

The  horrors  of  jealousy  smote  me  — 
The  face  of  a  Rival !  thought  I  ; 

But  scarce  had  a  minute  flown  over, 
When  more  was  exposed  to  my  eye. 

The  casket  was  stealthily  opened, 
A  hand,  shed  its  whiteness  within, 

And  forth  from  its  secret  recesses 
Brought  something  of  silver,  or  tin. 

• 
She  dipp'd  it  low  down  in  the  casket  — 

Glanced  anxiously  round,  as  in  fear, 
Then  parted  her  lips  in  a  moment, 

And  plunged  it  between  with  a  smear  ! 

I  saw  it,  recoiling  in  horror  ! 

One  glimpse  of  the  scene  was  enough  ; 
The  thing  in  her  mouth  was  a  "  Dipper," 

The  casket,  a  casket  of  snuff. 

O,  what  was  the  glow  of  her  blushes, 
O,  what  was  the  glance  of  her  eye  ? 

The  flush  of  a  deep  dissipation, 
The  fire  that  but  sparkled  to  die  ! 


DISENCHANTED.  2O3 


My  vision  of  loveliness  faded, 

My  passion  was  turn'd  to  disdain  ; 

I  crept  from  the  place  like  a  shadow, 
And  never  shall  enter  again. 


THE    NEUTRAL    BRITISH    GENTLEMAN. 

INCRUSTED  in  his  island  home  that  lies  beyond 
the  sea, 

Behold  the  great  original  and  genuine  'T  is  HE  ; 

A  paunchy,  fuming  Son  of  Beef,  with  double  weight 
of  chin, 

And  eyes  that  were  benevolent,  —  but  for  their  singu 
lar  tendency  to  turn  green  whenever  it  is  re 
marked  that  his  irrepressible  American  cousins 
have  made  another  Treaty  with  China  ahead  of 
him,  —  and  taken  Albion  in. 

This  Neutral  British  Gentleman,  one  of  the  modern 
time. 

With  William,  Duke  of  Normandy,  his  ancestors,  he 
boasts, 

Came  over  from  the  shores  of  France  to  whip  the  Sax 
on  hosts ; 

And  this  he  makes  a  source  of  pride  ;  but  wherefore 
there  should  be 

Such  credit  to  an  Englishman  —  in  the  fact  that  he  is 
descended  from  a  nation  which  England  is  for 
ever  pretending  to  regard  as  slightly  her  inferior 
in  everything,  and  particularly  behind  her  in 
military  and  naval  affairs  —  we  really  cannot  see. 

This  Neutral  British  Gentleman,  one  of  the  modern 
time. 


THE    NEUTRAL    BRITISH    GENTLEMAN.         2O5 

He  deals  in  Christianity,  Episcopalian  brand, 
And  sends  his  missionaries  forth  to  bully  heathen  land  ; 
Just  mention  "Slavery"  to  him,  and  with  a  pious  sigh 
He  '11  say  it 's  'orrid,  scandalous  —  although  he  's  ready 
to  fight  for  the  Cotton  raised  by  slaves,  and  for 
gets  how  he  butchered  the    Chinese  to  make 
them  take  Opium,  and  blew  the  Sepoys  from 
the  guns  because  the  poor  devils  refused  to  be 
enslaved  by  the  East  India  Company  —  or  his 
phi-lan-thro-py. 

This  Neutral  British  Gentleman,  one  of  the  modern 
time. 

He  yields  to  Brother  Jonathan  a  love  that  passeth 
show,  — 

"We're  Hanglo-Saxons,  both  of  us,  and  carn't  be 
foes,  you  know." 

But  as  a  Christian  Englishman,  he  cannot,  cannot  hide 

His  horror  of  the  spectacle  — of  four  millions  of  black 
beings  boldly  held  in  bondage  by  a  nation  pro 
fessing  the  largest  liberty  in  the  world,  though 
in  case  of  an  anti-slavery  crusade  the  interests 
of  his  Manchester  factors  would  imperatively 
forbid  him  to  —  take  part  on  either  side. 

This  Neutral  British  Gentleman,  one  of  the  modern 
time. 

Now  seeing  the  said  Jonathan  by  base  rebellion  stirr'd, 
And  battling  with  pro-slavery,  it  might  be  thence  in- 

ferr'd 
That  British  sympathy,  at  last,  would  spur  him  on  to 

strife  ; 


2O6         THE    NEUTRAL    BRITISH    GENTLEMAN. 

But,  strange  to  say, this  sympathy  —  is  labelled  "NEU 
TRALITY,"  and  consigned  to  any  rebel  port  not 
too  closely  blockaded  to  permit  English  vessels, 
loaded  with  munitions,  to  slip  in.  And  when 
you  ask  Mr.  Bull  what  he  means  by  this  incon 
sistent  conduct,  he  becomes  virtuously  indig 
nant,  rolls  up  his  eyes,  and  says  :  "  I  carn't 
endure  to  see  brothers  murdering  each  other 
and  keeping  me  out  of  my  cotton  —  I  carn't, 
upon  my  life  ! " 

This  Neutral  British  Gentleman,  one  of  the  modern 
time. 

Supposing  Mr.  Bull  should  die,  the  question  might 
arise  : 

Will  he  be  wanted  down  below,  or  wafted  to  the  skies  ? 

Allowing  that  he  had  his  choice,  it  really  seems  to  me 

The  moral  British  Gentleman  —  would  choose  a  front 
seat  with  his  Infernal  Majesty ;  since  Milton,  in 
his  blank  verse  correspondence  with  old  Times, 
more  than  once  hinted  the  possibility  of  Nick's 
rebellion  against  Heaven  succeeding ;  and  as 
the  Lower  Secessia  cottoned  to  England  through 
numerous  Hanoverian  reigns,  such  a  choice  on 
the  part  of  the  philanthropical  Britisher  would 
be  simply  another  specimen  —  of  his  NEUTRAL- 
I-TY  ! 

This  Neutral  British  Gentleman,  one  of  the  modern 
time. 


A   COMPROMISE. 

YOU  call  it  Cant,  O  Strong  of  Mind  ! 
When,  heeding  human  nature's  plan, 
We  doubt  if  you  are  fit  for  all 
That  is  the  more  becoming  Man. 

If  only  shallow  cant  it  be, 

True  wisdom's  honest  ear  to  vex, 

By  something  more  than  scolding  prove 
The  manly  genius  of  your  sex. 

When  Woman,  by  her  science,  shows 
The  subtle  lightning  how  to  write  ; 

When  Woman,  by  her  brain,  shall  teach 
A  nation's  army  how  to  fight ; 

When  Woman's  mastery  of  State, 
Shall,  like  another  Wheaton's,  rule ; 

When  Woman  a  Colenso  comes, 

To  lead  a  higher  churchman's  school ; 

When  Woman,  by  mechanic-skill, ' 
A  second  Reaper  shall  invent ; 

When  Woman,  by  her  pen,  shall  match 
A  Story,  Blackstone,  or  a  Kent;  — 


208  A    COMPROMISE. 

She,  in  the  workshop,  court  of  law, 
The  fidd  of  arms,  or  field  of  grain, 

The  Council  of  the  Church,  or  State, 
May  equal  place  with  Man  attain. 

And  'till  she  thus  a  fitness  proves 

For  Rights  for  which  her  sex  may  pant, 

We,  Men,  remain  but  those  who  Can, 
And  she  and  hers  the  ones  who  Can't ! 

Yet  if  for  her  there  needs  must  be 
Some  chance  above  herself  to  rise, 

Without  distraction  to  the  world 
There  still  may  be  a  compromise  : 

Let  Woman  not  for  voting  stir, 

But  learn  the  barber's  trade  instead ; 

So  shall  the  Poll  be  brought  to  her, 
To  razor  o'er  her  husband's  head. 


ILLITERARIA. 


SOUTHWESTERN    SKETCHES, 

BY  "THE  ARKANSAW  NIGHTINGALE." 

THE   BEWITCHED   TERRIER. 

SAM  JOHNSON  was  a  cullud  man 
Who  lived  down  in  Judee  ; 
He  owned  a  rat  tan  tarrier 

That  stood  'bout  one  foot  three ; 
And  the  way  that  critter  chaw'd  up  rats 
Was  gorjus  for  to  see. 

One  day  this  dorg  was  slumberin' 

Behind  the  kitchen  stove, 
When  suddenly  a  wicked  flea  — 

An  ugly  little  cove  — 
Began  upon  his  faithful  back 

With  many  jumps  to  rove. 

Then  up  arose  that  tarrier, 

With  frenzy  in  his  eye, 
And  waitin'  only  long  enough 

To  make  a  touchin'  cry, 
Commenced  to  twist  his  head  around, 

Most  wonderfully  spry. 


212  SOUTHWESTERN    SKETCHES. 

But  all  in  vain  ;  his  shape  was  sich, 

So  awful  short  and  fat  — 
That  though  he  doubled  up  hisself, 

And  strain'd  hisself  at  that, 
His  mouth  was  half  an  inch  away 

From  where  the  varmint  sat. 

The  dorg  sat  up  an  awful  yowl 

And  twisted  like  an  eel, 
Emitting  cries  of  misery 

At  ev'ry  nip  he  'd  feel, 
And  tumblin'  down  and  jumpin'  up, 

And  turnin'  like  a  wheel. 

But  still  that  most  owdacious  flea 

Kept  up  a  constant  chaw 
Just  where  he  could  n't  be  scratch'd  out 

By  any  reach  of  paw, 
But  always  half  an  inch  beyond 

His  wictim's  snappin'  jaw. 

Sam  Johnson  heard  the  noise,  and  came 

To  save  his  animile  ; 
But  when  he  see  the  crittur  spin  — 

A  barkin'  all  the  while  — 
He  dreaded  hiderfobia, 

And  then  began  to  rile. 

"The  pup  is  mad  enough,"  says  he, 

And  luggin'  in  his  axe, 
He  gev  the  wretched  tarrier 

A  pair  of  awful  cracks, 


THE    BEWITCHED    TERRIER. 

That  stretch'd  him  out  upon  the  floor, 
As  dead  as  carpet-tacks. 

Take  warnin'  by  this  tarrier 
And  keep  this  p'int  in  view  : 

The  wicked  Flea,  when  no  men  but 
The  reachers  him  pursue, 

Is  bold  as  any  lion,  just 
To  prove  the  Scripters  true. 


TUSCALOOSA   SAM. 

THERE  was  a  man  in  Arkansaw 
As  let  his  passions  rise, 
And  not  unfrequently  pick'd  out 
Some  other  varmint's  eyes. 

His  name  was  Tuscaloosa  Sam, 

And  often  he  would  say, 
"  There 's  not  a  cuss  in  Arkansaw 

I  can't  whip  any  day." 

One  morn,  a  stranger  passin'  by, 

Heard  Sammy  talkin'  so, 
When  down  he  scrambled  from  his  hoss, 

And  off  his  coat  did  go. 

He  sorter  kinder  shut  one  eye, 

And  spit  into  his  hand, 
And  put  his  ugly  head  one  side, 

And  twitch'd  his  trousers'  band. 

"  My  boy,"  says  he,  "  it 's  my  belief, 

Whomever  you  may  be, 
That  I  kin  make  you  screech,  and  smell 

Pertikler  agony." 


TUSCALOOSA    SAM.  215 

"  I  'm  thar,"  says  Tuscaloosa  Sam, 

And  chuck'd  his  hat  away  ; 
"  I  'm  thar,"  says  he,  and  button'd  up 

As  far  as  buttons  may. 

They  clinch'd  like  two  rampageous  bears, 

And  then  went  down  a  bit ; 
They  swore  a  stream  of  six-inch  oaths 

And  fit,  and  fit,  and  fit. 

When  Sam  would  try  to  work  away, 

And  on  his  pegs  to  git, 
The  stranger  'd  pull  him  back  ;  and  so, 

They  fit,  and  fit,  and  fit ! 

Then  like  a  pair  of  lobsters,  both 

Upon  the  ground  were  knit, 
And  yet  the  varmints  used  their  teeth, 

And  fit,  and  fit,  and  fit ! ! 

The  sun  of  noon  was  high  above, 

And  hot  enough  to  split, 
But  only  riled  the  fellers  more, 

That  fit,  and  fit,  and  fit ! ! ! 

The  stranger  snapp'd  at  Sammy's  nose, 

And  shorten'd  it  a  bit ; 
And  then  they  both  swore  awful  hard, 

And  fit,  and  fit,  and  fit ! !  !  ! 

The  mud  it  flew,  the  sky  grew  dark, 
And  all  the  litenins  lit ; 


2l6  SOUTHWESTERN    SKETCHES. 

But  still  them  critters  roll'd  about 
And  fit,  and  fit,  and  fit  !  !  !  !  ! 

First  Sam  on  top,  then  t'other  chap ; 

When  one  would  make  a  hit, 
The  other  'd  smell  the  grass  ;  and  so, 

They  fit,  and  fit,  and  fit !!!!!! 

The  night  came  on,  the  stars  shone  out 

As  bright  as  wimmen's  wit ; 
And  still  them  fellers  swore  and  gouged, 

And  fit,  and  fit,  and  fit !!!!!!! 

The  neighbors  heard  the  noise  they  made, 
And  thought  an  earthquake  lit ; 

Yet  all  the  while  't  was  him  and  Sam 
As  fit,  and  fit,  and  fit !!!!!!!!   . 

For  miles  around  the  noise  was  heard ; 

Folks  could  n't  sleep  a  bit, 
Because  them  two  rantank'rous  chaps 

Still  fit,  and  fit,  and  fit !!!!!!!!! 

But  jist  at  cock-crow,  suddently, 
There  came  an  awful  pause, 

And  I  and  my  old  man  run  out 
To  ascertain  the  cause. 

The  sun  was  rising  in  the  yeast, 

And  lit  the  hull  concern ; 
But  not  a  sign  of  either  chap 

Was  found  at  any  turn. 


TUSCALOOSA    SAM. 


217 


Yet,  in  the  region  where  they  fit, 
We  found,  to  our  surprise, 

One  pint  of  buttons,  two  big  knives, 
Some  whiskers,  and  four  eyes  ! 


'LIGE    SIMMONS'S    DOG. 

'  T     IGE   SIMMONS  is  as  'cute  a  chap 

J >     As  ever  you  did  see, 

And  when  the  feller  says  a  thing, 
It 's  sure  as  it  can  be. 

He  owns  a  dog  —  and  sich  a  brute 

For  gettin'  round  a  chap, 
I  never  see  in  all  rny  life, 

You  'd  better  bet  your  cap. 

Now  'Lige  is  proud  of  this  here  dog, 

And  says  the  critter  '11  whip 
As  many  wild-cats  in  an  hour 

As  go  to  load  a  ship. 

"  But  law,"  says  'Lige,  "  that  animile 

Is  awful  in  a  row, 
And  other  pups  'longside  of  him 

An't  no  account,  nohow." 

In  fact,  one  day,  I  saw  the  same 

Contemporaneous  pup 
Pitch  into  a  Newfoundlander 

And  chaw  him  slightly  up. 


'LIGE   SIMMONS'S    DOG.  2 19 

He  's  such  a  plaguy  little  cuss, 

You  'd  laugh  to  see  him  come ; 
But  when  there  's  chawin'  up  to  do 

I  tell  you,  boss,  he  's  some  ! 

One  day,  a  pedler  came  to  town 

With  ginger-beer  and  things, 
And  patent  clocks,  and  pious  books, 

And  fancy  finger-rings. 

And  underneath  his  cart  was  tied 

A  bull-dog  of  the  kind 
That  tears  your  musn't-mention-'ems, 

In  angry  frame  of  mind. 

Now  'Lige's  dog  was  smellin'  round, 

And  when  he  see  this  here, 
He  cock'd  his  eye  in  agony, 

And  acted  awful  queer. 

The  bull-dog  gin  a  rousin'  shout, 

As  'Lige's  dog  went  by, 
And  gev  him  such  a  sassy  nip 

That  fur  began  to  fly. 

Then  'Lige's  dog  unfurl'd  his  tail 

And  gev  the  wound  a  lick, 
And  then  pitch'd  into  that  ere  dog 

A  way  that  was  n't  sick. 

The  critters  had  it  nip  and  tuck, 
And  made  such  awful  noise, 


22O  SOUTHWESTERN    SKETCHES. 

That  'Lige  himself  came  up  to  see, 
With  all  the  other  boys. 

The  pedler  see  him,  and  says  he, 

Like  one  to  fits  inured  : 
"  I  'm  sorry,  strannger ;  but  I  hope 

Your  yaller  dog  's  insured." 

I  tell  you,  boys,  't  was  fun  to  see 

The  grin  that  'Lige  put  on, 
As  in  his  cheek  he  put  a  chaw 

And  wink'd  his  eye  at  one. 

"  O,  let  the  varmints  fit,"  says  'Lige, 

"  My  pup  is  awful  thin, 
And  this  here  row  will  make  him  look 

Jist  like  himself  ag'in." 

And  all  this  while  the  fit  went  on, 

With  such  a  mess  of  dust 
We  could  n't  tell  the  upper  dog, 

If  all  our  eyes  should  bust. 

'T  was  yell  and  yowl,  and  shout  and  growl, 

And  stompin'  awful  hard, 
And  sometimes  ther  'd  a  tail  stick  out 

From  where  the  dust  was  bar'd. 

Byme-by  the  noise  began  to  die, 

And  as  it  fainter  grew, 
The  dust  began  to  settle  down, 

And  you  could  just  see  through. 


'LIGE    SIMMONS  S    DOG.  221 

At  last  it  clear'd  away  entire, 

But  all  that  we  could  see 
Was  'Lige's  dog  a  squattin'  down 

Beneath  the  axletree. 

"  Law  !  "  says  the  pedler,  lookin'  blue, 

"  What 's  happened  to  my  pup  ?  " 
Says  'Lige  :  "  It  's  my  opinion,  boss, 

My  pup  has  eat  him  up." 

"  But  where  's  the  chain  I  tied  him  with  ? " 

The  pedler  loud  did  call. 
And  would  you  b'lieve  me  —  'Lige's  dog 

Had  swallow'd  chain  and  all  ! 

One  end  was  hangin'  from  his  mouth 

And  gev  him  such  a  cough, 
We  had  to  fetch  a  chisel  out 

And  cut  some  inches  off. 

The  pedler  dropp'd  a  tear,  and  then 

Says  he  to  'Lige,  says  he  : 
"  I  'd  like  to  buy  that  yaller  pup 

And  take  him  home  with  me." 

But  "  no,"  says  'Lige,  with  proud  disdain, 

And  sot  down  on  a  log, 
"  That  pup  is  plural  now,  you  know  — 

A  dog  within  a  dog." 

"  He  's  twice  as  strong  to  fit,"  says  'Lige  ; 
"  For  if  he  's  kill'd  outside, 


222  SOUTHWESTERN    SKETCHES. 

I  '11  turn  the  critter  inside  out, 
And  let  your  critter  slide." 

"  Well,"  says  the  pedler,  with  a  sigh, 
"  The  pup  's  a  trump,  I  think ; 

But  let  us  change  the  subject  now ; 
Say,  strannger !  —  do  you  drink  ? " 


THE   PHANTOM   GOAT. 


wuz  a  rather  oldish  chap 
JL     That  lived  in  Tennessee  ; 
A  parson  of  the  Methodists, 
With  mighty  beard,  was  he. 

It  wuz  a  mighty  beard,  you  bet, 
That  wagg'd  upon  his  breast, 

And  when  the  good  old  cuss  would  talk 
It  work'd  like  all  possest. 

This  good  old  cuss  he  had  a  goat 

He  'd  kept  for  many  years, 
And  how  they  loved  each  other  well 

Would  move  a  pump  to  tears. 

The  goat  would  run  to  meet  the  cuss 
When  air  he  heard  his  tread, 

And  then  the  parson  he  would  stoop 
To  scratch  poor  Billy's  head. 

But  when  the  smashin'  war  broke  out 

Purvisions  got  so  scurce, 
The  parson  found  it  would  n't  pay 

An  idle  beast  to  nurse  ; 


224  SOUTHWESTERN    SKETCHES. 

And  so,  one  day  the  good  old  cuss 
His  ancient  friend  did  fell ; 

And  having  skinn'd  and  salted  him 
Did  live  on  him  a  spell. 

But  O,  it  went  agin  the  grain 

This  cruel  deed  to  do, 
And,  having  eaten  up  the  goat, 

The  parson  wept  boo-hoo. 

The  more  he  thought  on  that  air  deed 

The  more  he  did  repent, 
And  bitterly  he  cuss'd  the  axe 

With  which  he  let  it  went. 

It  prey'd  so  awful  on  his  mind, 

That  even  in  his  sleep 
He  pluck'd  his  beard,  and  kick'd  about, 

And  in  a  dream  did  weep. 

One  moonlight  night  he  woke  him  up, 

And,  rising  on  his  cot, 
Beheld,  almost  beside  his  bed, 

A  vision  of  his  goat ! 

He  nods  his  head,  the  goat  nods  his ; 

The  parson  gives  a  groan 
And  settles  down  amongst  the  quilts 

A  shakin'  to  the  bone. 

Next  night  the  same,  and  so  the  next ; 
The  moonlight  still  reveals 


THE    PHANTOM    GOAT.  225 

The  features  of  a  fantom  goat, 
But  lately  used  at  meals. 

The  good  old  cuss,  he  bore  the  thing 

Till  conquer'd  by  his  fright, 
And  then  he  went  and  got  a  friend 

To  stay  with  him  a  night. 

T  was  half  past  ten  when  this  here  friend 

Was  ca'll'd  unto  the  cot, 
And  lo  !  the  parson  showed  to  him 

The  spectre  of  the  goat. 

The  friend  he  look'd  with  eager  eyes 

To  see  what  he  could  see, 
And  then  he  bust  into  a  larf, 

A  reg'lar  he  !  he  !  he  ! 

Then  gravely  said  the  good  old  cuss, 

"Why  larf  you  so,  my  friend? 
The  reason  of  your  levity 

I  cannot  comprehend." 

"  Because,  old  man,"  the  friend  return'd, 

"  That  goat 's  no  ghostly  elf, 
But  your  own  head  and  beard  within 

The  mirror  on  the  shelf!" 

And  so  it  was  !     The  good  old  cuss, 

Inspired  with  fear  and  awe, 
Was  all  but  scared  to  death  when  he 

His  own  reflection  saw. 

10*  o 


226  SOUTHWESTERN    SKETCHES. 

For  when  the  light  fell  on  the  glass, 

And  he  sat  on  his  cot, 
The  former  caught  his  head  and  beard 

And  made  of  them  a  goat ! 

Be  careful  you  who  wear  your  beards 
Half-way  up  to  your  eyes, 

Or  in  some  looking-glass  you  '11  see 
A  fantom  goat  likewise  ! 


PAUDEEN. 

BY   RAPHAEL   ST.  JOHN. 

[A  volunteer  commentator  writes  a  note  introducing  the  extraordinary  verses 
given  below,  lauding  them  in  a  most  extravagant  and  outrageous  manner.  To 
quote  his  own  inflated  terms  :  "  The  author  of  the  following  exquisitely  pa 
thetic —  I  may  almost  say  holy  —  illustration  of  the  true  Sublimity  ever  to  be 
found  even  in  the  most  dissipated  type  of  human  depravity,  bears  the  hitherto 
obscure  name  of  Raphael  St.  John,  and  is  as  refined  as  he  is  beautiful.  Of 
unknown  age  and  pedigree  ;  with  wavy  golden  locks  floating  from  his  white 
temples  nearly  to  the  ground,  and  great,  spiritual  hazel  eyes,  directed  meekly 
upwards  through  the  long,  silken  lashes,  half  the  time  ;  with  features  daintily 
true  to  the  most  delicate  ideal  of  an  outward  bespeaking  an  inward  Purity,  and 
a  lithe,  willowy  form  subserving  the  most  spiritualized  model  of  childish  Grace, 
Raphael  St.  John  at  once  impresses  the  beholder  with  an  idea  of  Apostolic 
power  combined  with  the  most  subtle  delicacy."  After  some  further  raving 
enthusiasticalities  of  personal  description,  celebrating  the  unassuming  piety 
and  Christian  cleanliness  of  "  Raphael  St.  John's  tenderly  analytical  soul," 
our  excited  commentator  goes  on  to  say  that  "  in  '  Paudeen,'  with  its  wonder 
fully  faithful  domestic  lights  and  shades  of  American  life  and  honest  human 
nature,  we  have  nothing  less  than  the  first,  fresh,  full,  melodious  note  of  the 
long-expected  New  American  Literature  !  As  though  his  own  marvellous  in 
stinct  divined  as  much,  it  has  inspired  the  unwitting  sweet  singer  to  assimilate 
the  wondrous  prosody  of  his  precious  Lyric  for  Humanity  to  the  national  air 
of  '  The  Star-Spangled  Banner ! '  What  a  perfect  fitness  is  here  !  How 
gracefully  becoming  is  it  that  the  first  piece  of  distinctively  American  writing 
ever  produced  by  American  genius  should,  by  the  merest  apparent  accident, 
be  susceptible  of  popular  vocalization  to  a  tune  which  embalms  the  most  glo 
rious  of  national  memories  !  "] 

SINFUL  SAM  is  my  name,  I  confess,  to  my  shame, 
And  tears  for  the  same  are  both  frequent  and 

briny ; 

But  I  '11  put  up  the  soap  that  there  's  always  a  hope 
For  crimes  that  are  scarlet,  to  make  them  wash  shiny  — 


228  PAUDEEN. 

Or,  at  least,  so  it  said 
In  a  Book  I  heard  read, 

Before  my  old  mother  took  cold  and  went  dead. 
Though  the  name  of  that  Volume  recurs  not  to  me, 
'T  was  a  something,  you  bet,  that  began  with  a  B. 

Not  myself,  though,  I  mean,  as  it 's  plain  to  be  seen, 
But  Contrite  Paudeen,  who  was  scarlet  as  blazes ; 
At  the  close  of  the  day  in  his  shanty  he  lay, 
From  manifold  drinks  of  the  liquid  which  crazes  ; 
And  his  language  was  such, 
And  repeated  so  much, 

That  —  although  it  was  anything  rather  than  Dutch  — 
To  describe  its  chief  term  I  can  only  make  free 
With  a  hint  that  it  open'd  and  ended  with  D. 

Looking  up  with  a  stare,  as  I  sat  on  a  chair, 
He  tore  out  his  hair,  which  in  color  was  florid  ; 
And  I  saw  the  hot  drop  here  and  there  on  the  top 
Of  what  was  his  scanty  two  inches  of  forehead. 
"  Bloody  blazes  ! "  says  he, 
"  Is  it  Snakes  that  I  see  ? 
Keep  'em  off!  or,  Old  Woman,  I'll  wring  your"  — 

but  P., 
When  his  good  wife  addressing,  would  yearn,  now 

and  then, 
To  playfully  wring  what  began  with  an  N. 

To  console  him  I  tried,  and  his  vision  denied, 
While  proving,  beside,  that  he  only  was  dreaming ; 
"  Put  your  head  on  my  breast,  and  compose  you  to  rest, 
Old  pal !  "  I  remark'd,  "  and  let  up  with  your  scream 
ing." 


PAUDEEN.  229 

Then  he  gave  but  one  yell, 
Though  his  eyes  roll'd  a  spell ; 
Like  a  wearisome  child  on  my  bosom  he  fell  — 
"  Hold  me  up  !  you  infernal  old  "  —  ah,  \vell-a-day, 
'T  was  his  pet  name  for  me,  and  began  with  an  A. 

"  Are  you  Dying  ? "  I  said,  as  his  dear  bullet-head 
Kept  sinking,  like  lead,  from  my  shoulder  so  trembling  ; 
"  You  old  sardine,  reply  !     Is  it  all  in  your  eye  ? 
O  say,  if  you  can,  that  you  are  but  dissembling ! " 
"  I  am  caving,"  moan'd  he, 
With  a  clutch  at  my  knee, 

"  And  it 's  roasting  red-hot  that  I  quickly  shall  be. 
Who  will  then  be  a  father  to  poor  little  'Jeff,' 
But  yourself,  you  confounded  "  —  first  letter  an  F. 

"  Care  for  '  Jeff,'  —  the  bull-pup,  —  that  you  've  always 

back'd  up 

With  stamps,  though  no  sup  was  for  wife  or  for  babies  ? 
That  I  will,  my  old  pal  ;  have  the  best  care  he  shall  — 
Or  may  I  go  mad  with  his  consequent  rabies  !  " 
Thus  I  made  him  reply, 
And  Paudeen  winked  his  eye  : 
"I  'm  content  —  True-American-like  let  me  die  !  " 
With  a  smile  on  his  lip  on  his  pillow  he  fell  — 
"Sick  him,  —  Jeff!  —  give  him" — something  that 
ended  in  1. 

Sinful  Sam  is  my  name,  I  confess,  to  my  shame, 
And  tears  for  the  same  are  both  frequent  and  briny  ; 
But  I  '11  put  up  the  soap  that  there  's  always  a  hope 
For  crimes  that  are  scarlet,  to  make  them  wash  shiny. 


230  PAUDEEN. 

Or  a  Book  says,  at  least, 
Something  kind,  Mr.  Priest, 
For  the  merciful  man  who  is  good  to  his  beast. 
Though  the  name  of  the  Volume  recurs  not  to  me, 
'T  is  a  something,  you  bet,  that  begins  with  a  B.* 

*  While  conceding  to  the  above  lyric  all  the  credit  for  delicacy  and  reverence 
due  to  its  artless  substitution  of  initials  for  objectionable  full  words,  and  acknowl 
edging  that  the  curious  coincidence  of  its  rhythm  with  that  of  a  popular  national 
air  does  go  very  far  indeed  to  stamp  it  as  intrinsically  American,  the  judicious 
critic  must  still  question  whether  an  expiring  unmitigated  ruffian's  mortuary 
tenderness  for  his  righting  dog,  occurring  simultaneously  with  his  entire  forget- 
fulness  of  his  ill-used  wife  and  possible  children,  is,  even  in  the  interest  of  a 
new  native  literature,  the  full  justification  that  a  rigorous  theologian  might 
think  necessary  for  such  phrasing  of  things  sacred  as  can  be  sung  to  the  air 
of  "The  Star-Spangled  Banner." 


DE    GREAT    HALLELUGERUM. 

BY  A  "  CONTRABAND  "  REFUGEE.       (1863.) 

MY  mars'r 's  gwine  away  to  fight 
With  Mars'r  Linkum's  horde, 
An'  now  dis  chile  's  at  libaty 

To  dance  an'  bress  de  Lord. 
Dar  's  no  more  swearin'  round  de  house 

When  missus  cut  up  bad  ; 
Dar 's  no  more  kickin'  niggers'  shins, 
And,  darfor',  I  is  glad. 

When  mars'r  take  his  horse  to  go, 

He  kindly  say  to  me : 
"  I  hab  such  confidence  in  you, 

I  leab  you  all,  you  see  ; 
Of  all  de  niggers  round  de  place, 

I  trust  to  you  alone." 
By  golly  !  dat  's  what  mars'r  say 

To  eb'ry  nig  he  own ! 

"  Now  if  dem  Bobumlitionists 
Should  kill  me  dead,"  says  he, 

"  I  hab  instruct  your  missus  kind 
To  set  you  niggers  free." 


232  DE    GREAT    HALLELUGERUM. 

But  mars'r  say  dat  bery  same 

Wheneber  he  get  sick, 
And  bressed  Jesus  wrastle  him 

To  make  him  holy  quick. 

"  Dem  Yankees,  dam  um  all,"  says  he, 
"  Am  comin'  down  to  steal 

You  niggers,  and  to  sell  you  then 
For  Cuba  cochineal. 

De  Suvern  chiverly,"  says  he, 
"  Am  fightin'  jist  fo'  you." 

Now  mars'r  swearum  when  he  lie, 
And,  darfor',  dat  won't  do  ! 

Den  mars'r  trot  away  to  war 

With  'Dolphus  by  his  side,  — 
A  poor  cream-color'd,  common  dark 

Dat  is  n't  worf  his  hide. 
He  leab  me  and  de  other  nigs 

To  clar  the  place  alone, 
With  nuffin'  but  to  play  and  shake 

De  fiddle  and  de  bone. 

I  hab  a  talk  with  Uncle  Pete, 

De  old  plantation  hand, 
And,  though  he  am  intelligums, 

Dis  chile  can  understand. 
He  say  de  Hallelugerum 

For  cullud  folks  hab  cum, 
And  dat  cle  bressed  Lord  hab  heard 

And  beat  his  thunder-drum. 


DE    GREAT    HALLELUGERUM. 

He  say  dat  Northern  buckra  man 

Hab  sent  his  gun  an'  ship 
To  make  de  rebel  chiverly 

Give  up  his  nigger  whip  ; 
He  say  dat  now 's  de  darkey's  time 

To  break  de  bonds  of  sin, 
And  take  his  chil'en  an'  his  wife 

To  whar  de  tide  comes  in. 

He  say  dat  in  de  Norf,  up  dar, 

Whar  Mars'r  Greeley  dwell, 
De  white  folks  make  de  brack  folks  work, 

But  treat  them  bery  well ; 
He  says  dey  pay  them  for  de  work 

Dey  's  smart  enuff  to  do, 
And  nebber  sells  them  furder  Souf 

When  sheriff  put  um  screw. 

I  hab  a  wife  an'  chil'en  dear, 

And  mars'r  say  to  me, 
He  nebber  sell  them  while  he  live,  — 

He  'd  rather  set  them  free  ; 
But  dar's  de  mortgage  on  de  house, 

If  dat  should  hab  to  fall, 
Ole  Uncle  Pete  hab  told  me  dat 

He  'd  hab  to  sell  us  all. 

I  lub  de  ole  plantation  well, 

And  missus  she  is  kind  ; 
But  den  dis  chile  's  inclined  to  try 

Another  home  to  find. 


233 


234  DE    GREAT    HALLELUGERUM. 

Now  mars'r  gwine  away  to  war, 
And  give  me  such  a  chance, 

I  '11  bress  de  Lord  for  libaty, 
And  hab  a  Juba  dance. 

De  Hallelugerum  am  cum 

With  glory  in  his  eye, 
And  all  de  niggers  in  de  Souf 

Am  fit  to  mount  de  sky. 
My  wife  an'  chil'en  hab  de  spoons 

Dat  's  owned  by —  (here  a  cough) 
I  hab  de  sugar-tongs  myself, 

And,  darfor',  I  is  off. 


THE    UNIVERSAL    EXILE'S    LAMENT. 

ATTIND  to  me,  mother,  while  loud  I  'm  complain 
ing* 

And  bend  your  swate  eyes  more  complately  to  hear  ; 
For  weakness  of  voice  is  just  all  I  am  gaining, 

Locked  up  in  a  jail,  with  no  comrade  to  cheer. 
Ye  '11  say  it  's  from  jail  that  I  'm  always  a-writing, 

Ah,  true  is  the  story — pieta  di  me  f 
And  now,  as  before,  what  has  caused  my  indicting 
Is  just  my  insisting,  that 

Man  MUST  be  free  ! 

But  twinty  years  old  was  my  age  as  I  reckon, 

When  one  of  my  friends  had  his  landlord  to  pay  ; 
And  quick  we  agreed,  o'er  a  bottle  of  whiskey, 

To  settle  the  rint  with  shillalies  in  play. 
It  's  somebody's  head  that  I  crack'd  in  a  jiffy,  — 

My  own  sunny  France,  I  was  striking  for  thee  !  — 
And  straight  to  a  prison  les  tyrans  convey'd  me, 

Despite  my  protesting  that 

Man  MUST  be  free  ! 

I  served  like  a  baste  through  my  period  penal, 
Wi'  a'  the  composure  auld  Reekie  inspires  ; 

And  spake  to  the  judge  in  his  altitude  venal, 
As  one  in  whose  bosom  were  liberty's  fires. 


236         THE    UNIVERSAL    EXILE'S    LAMENT. 

Then  home  I  repair'd  ;  but,  before  I  got  thither, 
A  bit  of  a  mob  made  me  join  in  their  glee  ; 

It  's  government  houses  we  burn'd,  and  some  people, 
To  prove  we  were  drunk,  and  that 
Man  MUST  be  free  ! 

Myself  did  they  take,  with  some  dozens  of  others, 

And  gave  us  a  trial  for  trayson  indade  \ 
And  sintinced  us  all,  right  in  sight  of  our  mothers, 

To  cross  the  wide  ocean  with  fetters  and  spade. 
Not  ein  holies  wort  was  in  all  of  their  charges  : 

But  stern  was  the  Justice,  and,  "  Pris'ner,"  says  he, 
"How  came  you  to  join  in  this  burning  and  stealing  ?  " 

"  To  show,"  says  I,  boldly,  "  that 

Man  MUST  be  free  !  " 

When  safely  arrived  at  the  scene  of  our  labors, 

I  found  the  Commandant  quite  gintly  inclined  ; 
He  singled  me  out  from  the  midst  of  my  neighbors, 

And  softly  I  gave  him  a  piece  of  my  mind  : 
"  I  'm  sickly,"  says  I,  "  and  have  nade  of  indulgence, 

Nor  will  I  abuse  it  if  given  to  me." 
He  trusted  my  word  and  indulged  me,  per  Baccho, 

And  soon  I  escaped,  because 

Man  MUST  be  free  ! 

Then  straight  to  this  country  I  fled  for  protection, 
And  was  n't  I  hailed  as  a  patriot  born  ? 

They  asked  me  to  stand  for  a  local  election,  — 
But  such  a  small  offer  I  treated  with  scorn. 

And  soon  did  I  join,  with  an  energy  aygur, 
Some  gintleman  proud  as  it  's  aisy  to  be, 


THE    UNIVERSAL    EXILE'S    LAMENT. 

Who  went  into  fighting  for  keeping  the  naygur, 
And  showing,  per  Dio,  that 

Man  MUST  be  free  ! 

Bad  luck  to  it  all !  't  was  a  bating  they  gave  us; 

And  Allah  il  Allah  !  was  all  I  could  say  ; 
From  starving  down  South  there  was  nothing  to  save  us, 

And  I  was  not  slow  about  coming  away  : 
It  's  not  for  a  pardon  I  'd  ask  of  the  rulers, 

Nor  yet  would  I  seek  from  the  country  to  flee  ; 
For  what  could  they  do  in  a  real  republic 

To  one  who  said  only  that 

Man  MUST  be  free  ! 

Not  troubled  at  all  in  me  mind  for  the  morrow, 

I  turn'd  my  attintion  to  matters  of  State  ; 
And  so,  having  fail'd,  to  my  infinite  sorrow, 

In  fighting  the  nation,  took  comfort  of  fate. 
'Twas  right  in  the  midst  of  advising  the  rulers 

Just  how  they  should  act  to  the  South,  and  to  me,  — 
When  "  Credat  Judcens!"  they  say  ;  and  I  'm  taken 

To  jail,  though  explaining  that 

Man  MUST  be  free  ! 

Sure,  mother,  but  Liberty  's  all  a  delusion, 

And  Italy,  Hungary,  Poland,  and  I, 
Can  only  be  kept  in  eternal  confusion 

By  hoping  for  landlords  and  despots  to  die. 
So,  here  let  me  say,  in  the  musical  tongue  of 

My  own  native  Venice —  Venite per  me  f 
It  's  most  of  me  time  that  I  'm  spending  in  prison, 

And  all  from  insisting  that 

Man  MUST  be  free  ! 


THE   IRISH  RECRUIT. 

TWO  Irishmen  out  of  employ, 
And  out  at  the  elbows  as  aisily, 
Adrift  in  a  grocery-store 

Were  smoking  and  taking  it  lazily. 
The  one  was  a  broth  of  a  boy, 

Whose  cheek-bones  turn'd  out  and  turn'd  in  again, 
His  name  it  was  Paddy  O'Toole  — 
The  other  was  Misther  McFinnigan. 

"  I  think  of  enlistin',"  says  Pat, 

"  Because  do  you  see  what  o'clock  it  is  ; 
There  's  nothin'  adoin'  at  all 

But  drinkin'  at  Mrs.  O'Docharty's. 
It 's  not  until  after  the  war 

That  business  times  will  begin  again, 
And  fightin'  's  the  duty  of  all  "  — 

"  You  're  right,  sir,"  says  Misther  McFinnigan. 

"  Bad  luck  to  the  rebels,  I  say, 

For  kickin'  up  all  of  this  bobbery, 
They  call  themselves  gintlemen,  too, 

While  practisin'  murder  and  robbery ; 
Now  if  it 's  gintale  for  to  steal, 

And  take  all  your  creditors  in  again, 


THE    IRISH    RECRUIT.  239 

I  'm  glad  I  'm  no  gintleman  born  "  — 

"  You  're  right,  sir,"  says  Misther  McFinnigan. 

"  The  spalpeens  make  bould  to  remark 

Their  chivalry  could  n't  be  ruled  by  us ; 
And  by  the  same  token  I  think 

They  're  never  too  smart  to  be  fool'd  by  us. 
Now  if  it 's  the  naygurs  they  mane 

Be  chivalry,  then  it 's  a  sin  again" 
To  fight  for  a  cause  that  is  black  "  — 

"  You  're  right,  sir,"  says  Misther  McFinnigan. 

"  A  naygur  's  a  man,  ye  may  say, 

And  aiqual  to  all  other  Southerners  ; 
But  chivalry 's  made  him  a  brute, 

And  so  he  's  a  monkey  to  Northerners  ; 
Sure,  look  at  the  poor  cratur's  heels, 

And  look  at  his  singular  shin  again  ; 
It 's  not  for  such  gintlemen  fight  "  — 

"  You  're  right,  sir,"  says  Misther  McFinnigan. 

"  The  naygur  States  wanted  a  row, 

And  now,  be  me  sowl,  but  they  Ve  got  in  iti 
They  Ve  chosen  a  bed  that  is  hard, 

However  they  shtrive  for  to  cotton  it. 
I  'm  thinkin',  when  winter  comes  on 

They  '11  all  be  inclined  to  come  in  again ; 
But  then  we  must  bate  them  at  first "  — 

"You're  right,  sir,"  says  Misther  McFinnigan. 

"  Och  hone  !  but  it 's  hard  that  a  swate 

Good-lookin'  young  chap  like  myself,  indade, 


24O  THE    IRISH    RECRUIT. 

Should  loose  his  ten  shillin's  a  day 

Because  of  the  throuble  the  South  has  made  : 

But  that 's  just  the  raison,  ye  see, 

Why  I  should  help  Union  to  win  again. 

It 's  that  will  bring  wages  once  more  " 

"  You  're  right,  sir,"  says  Misther  McFinnigan. 

"Joost  mind  what  ould  England's  about, 

A-sendin'  her  throops  into  Canaday ; 
And  all  her  ould  ships  on  the  coast 

Are  ripe  for  some  threachery  any  day. 
Now  if  she  should  mix  in  the  war  — 

Be  jabers  !  it  makes  me  head  spin  again  ! 
Ould  Ireland  would  have  such  a  chance  ! "  — 

"  You  're  right,  sir,"  says  Misther  McFinnigan. 

"  You  talk  about  Irishmen,  now, 

Enlisthr  by  thousands  from  loyalty  ; 
But  wait  till  the  Phoenix  Brigade 

Is  called  to  put  down  British  Royalty  ! 
It 's  then  with  the  Stars  and  the  Stripes 

All  Irishmen  here  would  go  in  again, 
To  strike  for  the  Shamrock  and  Harp  !  " 

"  You  're  right,  sir,"  says  Misther  McFinnigan. 

"  Och,  murther  !  -me  blood  's  in  a  blaze, 

To  think  of  bould  Corcoran  leading  us, 
Right  into  the  camp  of  the  bastes 

Whose  leeches  so  long  have  been  bleeding  us  ! 
The  Stars  and  the  Stripes  here  at  home 

To  Canada's  wall  we  would  pin  again, 
And  would  n't  we  raise  them  in  Cork  ? "  — 

"  You  're  right,  sir,"  says  Misther  McFinnigan. 


THE    IRISH    RECRUIT.  24! 

"  And  down  at  the  South,  do  ye  mind, 

There  's  plinty  of  Irishmen  mustering, 
Deluded  to  fight  for  the  wrong 

By  rebel  misstatements  and  blustering ; 
But  once  let  ould  England,  their  foe, 

To  fight  with  the  Union  begin  again, 
And,  sure,  they  'd  desert  to  a  man  !  "  — 

"  You  're  right,  sir,"  says  Misther  McFinnigan. 

"  There  's  niver  an  Irishmen  born, 

From  Maine  to  the  end  of  Secessiondom, 
But  longs  for  a  time  and  a  chance 

To  fight  for  this  country  in  Hessian-dom  ; 
And  so,  if  ould  England  should  thry 

With  treacherous  friendship  to  sin  again, 
They  '11  all  be  on  one  side  at  once  "  — 

"  You  're  right,  sir,"  says  Misther  McFinnigan. 

"  We  Ve  brothers  in  Canada,  too  — 

(And  did  n't  the  Prince  have  a  taste  of  them  ?)  — 
To  say  that- to  Ireland  they're  true 

Is  certainly  saying  the  laste  of  them. 
If,  bearing  our  flag  at  our  head, 

We  rose  Ireland's  freedom  to  win  again, 
They  'd  murther  John  Bull  in  the  rear  !  "  — 

"You're  right,  sir,"  says  Misther  McFinnigan. 

"  Hurroo  !  for  the  Union,  me  boy  ! 

And  divil  take  all  who  would  bother  it, 
Secession  's  a  naygur  so  black 

The  divil  himself  ought  to  father  it ; 
Hurroo  !  for  the  bould  69th, 

That 's  prisintly  bound  to  go  in  again  ; 


242 


THE    IRISH    RECRUIT. 


It's  Corcoran's  rescue  they  're  at "  — 

"You  're  right,  sir,"  says  Misther  McFinnigan. 

"  I  'm  off  right  away  to  enlist, 

And  sure  won't  the  bounty  be  handy-O  ! 
To  kape  me  respectably  dress'd 

And  furnish  me  dudheens  and  brandy-O  1 
I  'm  thinkin',  me  excellent  fri'nd, 

Ye  're  eying  that  bottle  of  gin  again  ; 
You  would  n't  mind  thryin'  a  drop  " 

«  You  're  right,  sir,"  says  Misther  McFinnigan. 


WIDOW    MACSHANE. 

NEAR  ould  Skibbereen,  in  the  gim  of  the  owshun, 
The  spaker  was  born,  in  a  quare-lookin'  place, 
Where  pigs  and  a  cow  were  in  full  locomowshtm, 
And  six  other  childers  were  shlapein'  in  pace. 

I  cannot  say  mooch  for  me  father's  exthraction, 
Because,  do  ye  see,  he  was  born  in  the  bogs ; 

But  as  for  me  mother,  be  double  transaction, 

She  loved  the  ould  chap  and  the  rest  of  the  hogs. 

'T  was  joost  as  I  enter'd  this  wurruld  of  slaughter, 
Me  father  looked  up  from  his  sate  be  the  wall  ; 

Says  he,  "  Me  svvate  Bridget,  pray  how  is  our  daughter  ? " 
Says  she,  "  Ye  ould  fool,  it 's  no  daughter  at  all ! " 

"Och  murther  an'  turf!"  he  exclaim'd  in  a  passion, 
And  struck  wid  his  fisht  on  the  top  of  his  knee  ; 

His  ancient  dudheen  in  the  corner  went  smashin', 
And  all  on  account  of  perverseness  in  me  ! 

"  Ye  red-lookin'  thafe  !  "  says  the  gintle  ould  sinner, 
Adthressing  his  illigant  languidge  to  me, 

"'T  is  a  nice-lookin'  mout  that  ye  have  for  a  dinner !  " 
But  I  was  too  spacheless  his  maneing  to  see. 


244  WIDOW    MACSHANE. 

"  I  swore  it,"  says  he,  "  be  the  sowl  of  Saint  Payther, 
A  nate  little  daughter  should  be  me  next  son  ; 

But  since  ye  have  chosen  a  maskelin  nayther, 
I  'm  bound  to  disown  ye,  as  sure  as  a  gun ! 

"  I  hope  ye  will  mate  wid  the  price  of  transgression, 
Whativer  the  craytures  ye  tarry  among ; 

And  mark  me,  me  lad  !  't  is  me  private  impression 
Ye  niver  will  die  'till  the  day  ye  are  hoong  !  " 

"  Be  quiet,  me  angil,"  says  Bridget,  me  mother, 
"  'T  is  aisy  to  talk  when  the  mischief  is  done  ; 

Who  knows  but  some  day  ye  may  want  for  a  brother ! 
And  thin  ye  '11  be  glad  that  yere  girl  is  a  son  ! " 

(The  wimmin  are  prophets,  wlieriver  ye  find  'em  ; 

For  many 's  the  time  I  have  help'd  me  poor  dad 
To^see  the  door  latchet  directly  behind  him, 

And  sometimes  to  walk — whin  the  whiskey  was  bad  !) 

The  way  I  was  bate  from  the  night  till  the  mornin', 
And  thin  from  the  mornin'  again  till  to  bed, 

Should  be  unto  aich  sivinth  son  a  sad  warnin' 
Against  gettin'  born  till  his  father  is  dead. 

But  batins  are  said  to  agree  wid  some  people  ; 

And  sure  they  were  blessin's  that  caused  me  to  grow 
Until  I  was  almost  as  tall  as  a  staple,  — 

And  only  fell  short  be  an  acre  or  so. 

Wan  mornin'  whin  I  was  ingaged  in  the  gardin', 
Me  father  came  up  wid  his  pipe  in  his  mout ; 


WIDOW    MACSHANE.  245 

And  "Barney,"  says  he,  "I  must  crave  for  yere  pardin  ; 
But  tell  me,  ye  spalpeen,  what  are  ye  about  ?" 

"  T  is  hoein'  the  praties,"  says  I,  wid  affection  ; 

Says  he,  "  'T  is  a  mighty  big  mout  ye  have  got ; 
And  sure  ye  'd  devour,  widout  frind  or  connection, 

As  mooch  as  would  grow  on  a  tin  acre  lot. 

"  Me  farrum,  ye  know,  is  not  quite  so  extinsive, 
And,  though  I  'm  as  fond  of  ye  now  as  me  breath, 

I  'm  fear'd,  as  yere  appetite  's  so  comprehinsive, 
Ye  '11  stay  here  to  ate  till  yere  starvin'  to  death." 

"  Yer  servant,"  said  I,  like  a  dignified  crayture, 
"  And  hoe  for  yersilf  in  the  future,"  says  I ; 

"  For  since  I  am  sthrong  as  yersilf  in  me  stature, 
I  don't  mind  remarkin'  to  ye  that  ye  lie  ! 

"  The  vvurruld  invites  me  to  walk  on  her  bussum, 
And  sthrive  for  a  place  in  the  council  of  state  ; 

And  niver  has  Fortune  a  low-hangin'  blossom, 
But  I,  like  a  bee,  will  extract  all  its  shwate." 

"  Thin  walk  on  the  bussom,  me  darlin',"  he  groonted, 
"  But  mind  that  ye  niver  get  down  in  the  mout ; 

Nor  go  to  the  land  where  an  Irishman  's  hoonted 
By  oogly  know-nothings  that 's  lurkin'  about." 

I  scorn'd  to  reply  to  the  spacious  suggestion  ; 

But  put  me  wardrobe  in  the  crown  of  me  hat; 
And,  kissing  me  mother,  to  aid  me  digestion, 

Set  out  on  me  thravels  as  still  as  a  cat. 


246  WIDOW    MACSHANE. 

Ye  mind  there  's  a  kingdom  called  Donnybrook  famous, 
'T  was  there  that  I  wint  an  adventure  to  mate  ; 

And  whin  I  arrived  I  was  weary  and  lame  as 
A  baste  of  the  plough  wid  no  legs  to  his  fait. 

Bad  luck  to  the  fortune  that  carried  me  in  it ! 

And  sure  't  is  the  mem'ry  that  gives  me  a  pain ; 
For  scarce  had  I  been  in  the  tavern  a  minute 

Whin  I  fell  a  victim  to  Widow  MacShane  ! 

'T  was  she  was  the  landlord  that  thrated  me  dacent, 
And  put  me  to  bed  wid  a  brick  in  me  head  ; 

And  put  some  more  bricks  in  a  bottle  adjacent 
To  kape  out  the  cowld  whin  me  arrum  was  bled. 

And  be  the  same  token  I  came  for  to  love  her, 
And  ask'd  her  to  thry  the  high-menial  line  ; 

She  called  me  "  an  in-sin-i-w-tin'  young  rover," 
And  put  her  big  mout  on  a  fayture  of  mine  ! 

Och  murther  an'  ounds  !  was  the  divil  behind  me, 
To  blind  me  affection  an'  worry  me  brain  ? 

Or  was  it  the  coorse  of  me  father  resigned  me 
Into  the  fat  arrums  of  Widow  MacShane  ? 

And  sure  she  had  childers,  the  wildest  young  divils 
That  iver  disgraced  a  respictable  place  ; 

And  wan  of  me  first  matrimonial  evils 

Was  havin'  their  scratches  all  over  me  face  ! 

"  Me  darlin',"  I  said  to  their  illigant  mother, 
"  The  childers  are  rayther  too  forward,"  says  I ; 


WIDOW    MACSHANE. 


Whin  grabbin'  a  poker,  or  somethin'  or  other, 
She  gave  me  a  whack  in  the  small  of  me  thigh  ! 

Because  I  complain'd  of  sooch  singular  tratement, 
She  made  it  appear  most  uncommonly  plain 

That  I  was  a  baste,  whin  compared  with  the  statement 
Of  all  the  shwate  virtues  of  Misther  MacShane  ! 

Och  !  sure  sooch  a  life  as  I  led  wid  the  crayture 
Would  make  the  most  patient  of  madmen  insane  ! 

And  often  convaynient  I  found  to  my  nature 
To  invy  the  ghosht  of  departed  MacShane  ! 

If  I  did  n't  wear  an  ould  shirt  for  a  saison, 
And  kape  it  remarkably  rigid  and  clane, 

That  woman  would  niver  be  timpted  to  raison, 
But  talk'd  of  the  nateness  of  Misther  MacShane  ! 

Whiniver  the  night  spread  abroad  her  dark  pinions, 
Thim  childers  would  chatter  like  monkies  in  pain; 

And  thin  I  was  call'd  from  me  drame-land  dominions 
To  comfort  the  spalpeens  of  Misther  MacShane  ! 

If  coxcombs  and  guardsmen  made  love  to  me  woman, 
And  I,  in  me  innocence,  chose  to  complain, 

She  'd  intimate  sthrongly  that  I  was  inhuman, 

And  mintion  me  contrast  wid  Misther  MacShane  ! 

If  I  took  a  shillin'  to  get  me  some  whiskey, 
And  did  n't  remimber  to  stale  it  again, 

Be  all  of  the  Pow'rs  but  she  'd  grow  mighty  frisky, 
And  threaten  to  send  me  to  —  Misther  MacShane  ! 


248  WIDOW    MACSHANE. 

I  rriver  went  out  of  the  house  in  the  mornin' 
Until  it  was  night  of  the  avening  befoor ; 

Because  she  would  give  me  a  dilicate  warnin' 
To  manage  the  childers  and  scrub  up  the  floor ! 

And  whin  I  would  vinture  to  spake  like  an  aiqual, 
And  tell  her  she  acted  confoundedly  mane  ; 

She  'd  tell  me  a  sthory,  and  tell  me  the  saiquel ! 
The  life  and  the  death  of  wan  Misther  MacShane  ! ! 

I  lived  like  a  baste  that  is  kill'd  be  its  master, 
Until  I  was  taken  wid  prisince  of  brain ; 

And  thin,  niver  lightning  could  thravel  mooch  faster 
Than  I  from  the  relic  of  Misther  MacShane ! 

I  came  to  this  coonthry  of  freedom  and  progress  ; 

And  only  had  been  here  a  couple  of  hours, 
When  I  was  elected  a  mimber  of  Congress  — 

Or  daycintly  ask'd  to  be  sooch,  be  the  Pow'rs ! 

But  I  shall  go  back  to  me  gim  of  the  owshun 
As  soon  as  me  widow  is  married  again, 

To  give  a  free  vint  to  me  pow'rful  emoshun, 

And  dance  on  the  grave  of  ould  Misther  MacShane  ! 


THE  IRISH  PICKET. 

I'M  shtanding  in  the  mud,  Biddy, 
Wid  not  a  spalpeen  near, 
And  silence,  spaichless  as  the  grave, 

Is  all  the  sound  I  hear. 
Me  gun  is  at  a  showlder  arms, 

I  'm  wetted  to  the  bone, 
And  whin  I  'm  afther  shpakein'  out, 
I  find  meself  alone. 

This  Southern  climate  's  quare,  Biddy, 

A  quare  and  bastely  thing, 
Wid  Winter  absint  all  the  year, 

And  Summer  in  the  Spring. 
Ye  mind  the  hot  place  down  below  ? 

And  may  ye  niver  fear 
I  'd  dthraw  comparisons  —  but  then 

It 's  awful  warrum  here. 

The  only  moon  I  see,  Biddy, 
Is  one  shmall  star,  asthore, 

And  that 's  fornint  the  very  cloud 
It  was  behind  before  ; 

The  watchfires  glame  along  the  hill 
That 's  swellin'  to  the  south, 
ii* 


25O  THE    IRISH    PICKET. 

And  whin  the  sentry  passes  them 
I  see. his  oogly  mouth. 

It 's  dead  for  shlape  I  am,  Biddy, 

And  dthramein  shwate  I  'd  be,' 
If  them  owld  rebels  over  there 

Would  only  lave  me  free ; 
But  when  I  lane  against  a  shtump 

And  shtrive  to  get  repose, 
A  musket-ball  be  's  comin'  shtraight 

To  hit  me  spacious  nose. 

It 's  ye  I  'd  like  to  see,  Biddy, 

A  shparkin'  here  wid  me, 
And  then,  avourneen,  hear  ye  say, 

"  Acushla  —  Pat  —  machree  !  " 
"  Och,  Biddy  darlint,"  then  says  I, 

Says  you,  "  Get  out  of  that "  ; 
Says  I,  "  Me  arrum  mates  your  waist," 

Says  you,  "  Be  daycent,  Pat." 

And  how's  the  pigs  and  ducks,  Biddy 

It 's  them  I  think  of,  shure, 
That  look'd  so  innocent  and  shwate 

Upon  the  parlor  flure  ; 
I  'in  shure  ye  're  aisy  with  the  pig 

That 's  fat  as  he  can  be, 
And  fade  him  wid  the  best,  because 

I  'in  towld  he  looks  like  me. 

Whin  I  come  home  again,  Biddy, 
A  sargent  thried  and  thrue, 


THE    IRISH    PICKET.  25 1 

It 's  joost  a  daycent  house  I  '11  build 

And  rint  it  chape  to  you. 
We  '11  have  a  parlor,  bedroom,  hall, 

A  duck-pond  nately  done, 
With  kitchen,  pig-pen,  praty-patch, 

And  garret  —  all  in  one. 

But,  murther  !  there  's  a  baste,  Biddy, 

That 's  crapein'  round  a  tree, 
And  well  I  know  the  crayture  's  there 

To  have  a  shot  at  me. 
Now,  Misther  Rebel,  say  yere  prayers, 

And  howld  yer  dirthy  paw, 
Here  goes  !  —  be  jabers,  Biddy  dear, 

I  've  broke  his  oogly  jaw  ! 


THE   IRISHMAN'S   CHRISTMAS. 

OLD  Mother  Earth  makes  Irishmen  her  universal 
pride, 
You  '11  find  them  all  about  the  world,  and  ev'rywhere 

beside ; 

And  good  Saint  Peter  up  above  is  often  feeling  tired, 
Because  of  sainted  Irishmen  applying  to  be  hired. 

Thus,  being  good  and  plentiful,  't  is  proper  we  should 

find 
A  spacious  house  stuck  full  of  them  where'er  we  have 

a  mind, 

And  unto  such  an  edifice  our  present  tale  will  reach, 
With  sixty  nice,  convenient  rooms  —  a  family  in  each. 

No  matter  where  it  stands  at  all ;  but  this  we  '11  let  you 
know, 

It  constitutes  itself  along  a  fashionable  row  ; 

And  when  a  bill  of  "  Rooms  to  let "  salutes  you  pass 
ing  by, 

You  see  recorded  under  it,  "  No  Naygurs  need  apply." 

Now,    Mr.    Mike   O'Mulligan    and    servant    boarded 

here,  — 
At  least,  his  wife  at  service  spent  a  portion  of  the 

year,  — 


THE    IRISHMAN'S    CHRISTMAS.  253 

And  when,  attired  in  pipe  and  hod,  he  left  his  parlor 

door, 
You  felt  the  country  had  a  vote  it  did  n't  have  before. 

Not  much  was  M.  O'Mulligan  to  festive  ways  inclined  ; 
For  chiefly  on  affairs  of  State  he  bent  his  giant  mind  ; 
But  just  for  relaxation's  sake  he  'd  venture  now  and 

then, 
To  lead  a  jig,  or  break  a  head,  like  other  Irishmen. 

Says  Mrs.  Mike  O'Mulligan,  when  Christmas  came, 

said  she  : 

"  Suppose  we  give  a  little  ball  this  avening  after  tea ; 
The  entry-way  is  broad  enough  to  dance  a  dozen  pairs, 
And  thim  that  does  n't  wish  to  dance  can  sit  upon  the 

stairs." 

"  And  sure,"  said  M.  O'Mulligan,  "  I  don't  object  to 

that; 
But  mind  ye  ask  the  girls  entire,  and  ev'ry  mother's 

Pat; 
I  'd  wish  them  all,  both  girls  and  boys,  to  look  at  me 

and  see, 
That,  though  I  'm  School  Commissioner,  I  'm  noways 

proud,"  says  he. 

The  matter  being  settled  thus,  the  guests  were  notified, 
And  none  to  the  O'Mulligans  their  presences  denied  ; 
But  all  throughout  the  spacious  house  the  colleens 

went  to  fix, 
And  left  the  men  to  clane  themselves  and  twirl  their 

bits  of  sticks. 


254  THE  IRISHMAN'S  CHRISTMAS. 

'T  was  great  to  see  O'Mulligan,  when  came  the  proper 

hour, 

Stand  smiling  in  the  entry-way,  as  blooming  as  a  flow'r, 
And  hear  him  to  each  lady  say,  "  Well  now,  upon  me 

sowl ! 
Ye  look  more  like  an  angel  than  like  any  other  fowl." 

And  first  came  Teddy  Finnigan,  in  collar  tall  and  wide. 
With  Norah  B.  O'Flannigan  demurely  by  his  side ; 
And  Alderman  O'Grocery,  and  Councilman  Maginn, 
And  both  the  Miss  Mulrooneys,  and  the  widow'd  Mrs. 
Flynn. 

The  Rileys,  and  the  Shaunesseys,  and  Murphys  all 
were  there, 

Both  male  and  female  creatures  of  the  manly  and  the 
fair ; 

And  crowded  was  the  entry-way  to  such  a  great  degree 

They  had  to  take  their  collars  off  to  get  their  breath 
ing  free. 

O'Grady  with  his  fiddle  was  the  orchestra  engaged, 
He  tuned  it  on  the  banisters,  and  then  the  music  raged; 
"  Now  face  your  partners  ev'ry  man,  and  kape  your  eyes 

on  me, 
And  don't  be  turning  in  your  toes  indacently,"  says  he. 

And  when  the  dance  began  to  warm,  the  house  began 

to  shake, 
The  windows,  too,  like  loosen'd  teeth,  began  to  snap 

and  break ; 


THE    IRISHMAN'S    CHRISTMAS.  255 

The  stove-pipes  took  the  ague  fit,  and  clatter'd  to  the 

floors, 
And  all  the  knobs  and  keys  and  locks  were  shaken 

from  the  doors. 

The  very  shingles  on  the  roof  commenced  to  rattle  out : 
The  chimney-stacks,  like  drunken  men,  insanely  reel'd 

about ; 

A  Thomas  cat  upon  the  eaves  was  shaken  from  his  feet, 
And  right  and  left  the  shutters  fell  into  the  startled 

street. 

It  chanced,  as  M.  O'Mulligan  was  fixing  something  hot, 
The  spoon  was  shaken  from  his  hand,  as  likewise  was 

the  pot ; 
The  plaster  from  the  ceiling,  too,  came  raining  on  his 

head, 
And  like  a  railway-carriage  danced  the  table,  chairs, 

and  bed. 

He  tore  into  the  entry-way,  and  "  Stop  the  jig  !  "  says 

he: 
"  It  Js  shakin'  down  the  house  ye  are,  as  any  one  can 

see  "  ; 

But  not  a  soul  in  all  the  swarm  to  dance  at  all  forbore, 
And  thumping  down  their  brogans  came,  like  hammers 

on  the  floor. 

And  then  the  house  began  to  sway  and  strain  and 

groan  and  crack, 
And  all  the  stairs  about  the  place  fell  crashing,  front 

and  back  ; 


256  THE    IRISHMAN'S    CHRISTMAS. 

The  very  air  was  full  of  dust,  and  in  the  walls  the  rats 
Forgot,  in  newer  perils  found,  all  terror  of  the  cats. 


Then  swifter  flew  O'Grady's  bow,  and  "  Mike,  me  lad," 

he  roar'd, 
"  They  '11  dance  until  they  have  n't  left  your  floor  a 

single  board  ; 
It 's  sperits  that  they  are,"  says  he,  "  and  I  'm  a  sperit, 

too ; 
And  sperit,  Mike  O'Mulligan,  is  what  we  '11  make  of 

you  ! " 

"  And  sure,"  said  M.  O'Mulligan,  though  turning  rather 

pale, 
"  It 's  quite  a  handsome  ghost  ye  are,  and  fit  for  any 

jail  : 
But  tell  me  what  I  've  done  to  you  offinsive  in  the 

laste  ; 
And  if  I  don't  atone  for  it,  I  'm  nothing  but  a  baste." 

"  It  's  faithless  to  Saint  Tammany  ye  are,"  O'Grady 
cried,  — 

And  wilder,  madder,  grew  the  jig  as  he  the  fiddle 
plied,  — 

"  It 's  faithless  to  Saint  Tammany,  who  bids  the  Irish 
man 

Attain  the  highest  office  in  this  country  that  he  can." 

"  Och  hone  ! "  says  poor  O'Mulligan,  "  it 's  pretty  well 

I've  done, 
To  be  a  School-Commissioner  before  I  'in  thirty-one ; 


THE    IRISHMAN'S    CHRISTMAS.  257 

'T  is  barely  just  a  year  to-day  since  I  set  out  from 

Cork, 
And  now,  be  jabers !  don't  I  hold  an  office  in  New 

York  ? " 

"Why,    true    for   you,    O'Mulligan,"   O'Grady   roar'd 

again ; 
"  But  what 's  a  School-Commissioner  to  what  ye  should 

have  been  ? 
It 's  Congressman,  the  very  laste,  an  Irishman  should 

be, 
And,  since  you  're  not,  receive  the  curse  of  Good  Saint 

Tammany ! " 

Then  wilder  danced  the  spirit  crew,  the  fiddler  gave  a 

scowl ; 
And  scarce  could  fated  Michael  raise  a  good  old  Irish 

howl, 
When  all  the  timbers  in  the  house  went  tumbling  with 

a  crash, 
Reducing  M.  O'Mulligan  to  bits  as  small  as  hash ! 

Take  warning  now,  all  Irishmen,  of  what  may  be  your 

fate, 
If  you  come  home  on  Christmas  night  an  hour  or  so 

too  late ; 
For  sleeping  on  the  garret  stairs,  and  rolling  down, 

may  be 
To  you,  as  unto  Mike,  a  dream  of  good  Saint  Tammany ! 


THE   IRISH   EDITOR. 

ME  masculine  parent  was  reared  in  Weehawken, 
The  merchant  who  hired  him  was  Timothy 

Dod; 

Of  all  the  young  clerks  there  was  none  like  me  father, 
For  he  was  the  salesman  that  carried  the  hod. 

One  day  he  was  flying  right  up  a  shteep  ladder, 
With  plinty  of  bricks  in  his  hod  and  his  hat ; 

And  joost  as  he  shifted  his  foot  for  a  second, 
A  rung  it  gave  way,  and  me  parent  fell  flat. 

They  sint  for  a  coroner's  jury  and  dochtor, 
The  last  was  too  late  and  the  former  was  not ; 

An  inquest  was  held  and  a  verdict  was  given  — 

'T  was  :  "  Death  from  a  sun-sthroke  of  whiskey  too 
hot." 

And  thus  was  I  left  for  a  swate  little  orphan, 
Joost  twenty  years  old,  and  with  niver  a  cent ; 

Surrounded  by  those  whose  intintion  was  only 
To  trate  me  with  grace  till  me  fortune  was  spent. 

'T  was  lucky  I  had  such  a  fine  education, 
By  raisin  of  making  the  fires  for  a  school ; 


THE    IRISH    EDITOR.  259 

I  wrote  a  large  hand,  and  spoke  Greek  like  a  Hebrew — 
At  laste  I  was  towld  so  by  Terence  O'Toole. 

So,  what  do  I  start  but  a  newspaper  spacious, 

And  called  it  the  "Irishman's  Morning  Gazette"; 

Got  paper,  and  printing,  and  "  items  "  on  credit, 
And  talked  of  the  sheet  to  whomever  I  met 

Ah,  sure !  but  a  mighty  nate  thing  I  made  of  it : 
I  towld  of  great  doings  before  they  occurr'd ; 

I  got  up  fresh  murders  for  each  of  me  issues, 
And  blackguarded  all  that  I  counted  absurd. 

I  went  into  politics  up  to  the  handle, 

And  proved  that  the  country  was  ruin'd  indade ; 
I  called  the  postmasther  a  tief  and  a  scoundrel, 

And  eulogized  freedom,  free  lunch,  and  free  trade. 

I  trated  of  things  that  were  doing  in  Europe, 

And  wrote  editorials  all  about  kings  ; 
I  got  up  an  illigant  fancy  news  item 

About  a  strange  pig  that  was  throubled  with  wings. 

I  publish'd  the  essays  of  patent  quack  dochtors, 
I  criticised  actors,  and  pictures,  and  books ; 

And  when  a  philanthropist  paid  his  subscription, 
I  spoke  of  "the  affable  Mr. 's  good  looks." 

Och,  murther  !  but  did  n't  I  lather  the  spalpeen 
That  vainly  pretinded  to  edit  the  "  News  "  ; 

I  call'd  him  a  mane,  egotistical  twaddler, 
Not  worth  the  tobacco  a  gintleman  chews. 


26O  THE    IRISH   EDITOR. 

Ah,  sure,  'twas  a  gintleman's  paper  I  made  it,— 
That  dignified  journal,  the  "Morning  Gazette"  ; 

And  nothing  was  wanting  to  finish  me  fortune, 
But  all  the  subscribers  I  had  n't  got  yet. 

One  morning,  however,  me  giant  edition 

Was  taken  as  quick  as  it  came  from  the  press  ; 

The  person  who  took  it  was  known  as  the  sheriff, 
And  what  was  the  raisin  I  lave  you  to  guess. 

Thenceforth  I  retired  from  the  footstool  of  gaynius, 
To  mercantile  life  in  the  service  of  Dod  ; 

And  now,  like  me  father,  I  'm  simply  yours  truly, 
The  clerk  that  makes  mortar  and  carries  the  hod. 


SONGS    OF   THE    PERIOD. 
"GIVE  MY  BOX-AND-STRING  TO  BROTHER." 

(  The  American  Boy's  Very  Last  Request.} 

GIVE  my  Box-and-String  to  Brother, 
Mamma,  when  I  'm  dead  ; 
When  the  sexton  puts  me,  mother, 

"  In  my  little  bed." 
If  the  job  is  like  to  throw  him, 

When  the  string  he  jerks, 
Let  him  get  some  boy  to  show  him 
How  the  old  thing  works. 

Tell  our  neighbor  that  the  tin  hen, 

Causing  all  his  rips, 
Did  n't  finally  cave-in  when 

I  "  pass'd-in  my  chips  "  ; 
Though  your  son  forgives  him,  few  know 

How  he  fired  a  shelf 
Full  of  things  to  stop  my  —  uyou  know 

How  it  is  yourself." 

Once  he  took  to  bootjack  chucking 
From  his  room,  when  I 


262  SONGS    OF    THE    PERIOD. 

Ask'd  him,  while  I  made  the  clucking, 
"  How  is  that  for  high  ?  " 

If  my  fever  ain't  a  sell,  I  '11 
Pardon  spread  on  slim  ; 

But  if  ever  I  get  well,  I  '11 
"  Put  a  head  on  him  !  " 


"DEAR    FATHER,    LOOK    UP." 

{Illustrative  of  American  domestic  Discipline  and  paternal  Veracity.} 


D 


I  EAR  Father,  look  up, 
Away  from  the  cup, 
And  tell  me  what  aileth  ma's  forehead. 
It 's  all  black-and-blue ; 
O,  what  could  she  do 
To  cause  a  contusion  so  horrid  ? 

"  Your  mother,  Jane  Ann, 

A  newspaper  man 
Admired,  till  I  warn'd  her  she  'd  catch  it ; 

Like  Washington,  I 

Cannot  tell  a  lie  — 
I  did  it  with  my  little  hatchet" 


"  WHEN  YOUR  CHEAP  DIVORCE  IS  GRANTED."    263 


"WHEN    YOUR    CHEAP    DIVORCE    IS 
GRANTED." 

(From  a  Child  in  the  Eastern  States  to  her  mother,  temporarily  ab 
sent  from  Home  on  a  supposed  visit  to  relatives  in  the  West. ) 

WHEN  your  cheap  divorce  is  granted, 
Mother,  and  you  leave  the  West, 
Shall  I  stay  with  you  or  father  ? 

Tell  me,  mother,  which  the  best  ? 
He  '11  be  much  surprised,  I  fear  me, 

When  he  knows  what  you  have  filed, 
And,  unless  you  hover  near  me, 
He  '11  appropriate  your  child. 

Mother,  if  the  move  was  needful ; 

If  the  income  you  and  he 
Shared  so  long,  at  last  has  bred  an 

Incompatibility  ; 
If  you  '11  be  his  wife  no  longer, 

When  returning  from  the  West, 
Which  am  I  to  love  the  stronger  ? 

Tell  me,  mother,  which  the  best  ? 


264  SONGS    OF    THE    PERIOD. 


"  O,  BE  NOT  TOO   HASTY,  MY  DEAREST." 

{Descriptive  of  a  Morning- Call  between  fashionable  sisters-in-law ; 
as  suggested  by  what  the  American  "  Round  Table  "  and  the  Eng 
lish  "  Saturday  Review  "  have  revealed  concerning  the  most  re 
spectable  Women  of  Society} 

O,  BE  not  too  hasty,  my  dearest, 
That  cloth  o'er  the  flagon  to  draw, 
But  pour  in  the  goblet  that 's  nearest 

A  swig  for  your  sister-in-law. 
I  know  that  I  Ve  taken  already 

As  much  as  beginner  should  stand  ; 
But  soda  at  home  will  soon  steady 
The  tremulous  nerves  of  my  hand. 

"  Pour  out  for  yourself,  my  dear  Bella, 

A  couple  of  fingers,  or  so  ;' 
And  don't  you  be  getting  too  'meller,' 

If  home  you  have  early  to  go. 
Already  the  tint  of  our  noses 

The  pace  is  betraying,  my  dear  ; 
And,  after  we  Ve  taken  our  doses, 

Suppose  we  swear  off,  for  a  year." 


"  WHILE    VIEWING    THIS    MENAGERIE."          265 


"WHILE    VIEWING    THIS    MENAGERIE." 

(An  American  Sire  and  Son  recognize  and  apply  the  Darwinian 
Moral  of  a  popular  Zoological  Exhibition.} 

WHILE  viewing  this  menagerie, 
If  smiles  you  'd  from  your  pa  win, 
I  'd  have  you  bear  in  mind,  my  son, 

The  works  of  Mr.  Darwin  ; 
When  yonder  creature  reaches  for 
Your  treasured  candy-chunk,  he 
Exhibits  such  a  hand  as  wore 
Our  own  ancestral  monkey. 

So  do  not  mock  at  him,  my  child, 

Nor  in  your  spirit  jeer  him, 
But  show  a  filial  reverence 

Whenever  you  are  near  him. 
Selection  —  Evolution  —  they 

In  distance  being  sunk,  he 
Would  be  exactly  like  yourself, 

And  you  yourself  a  monkey. 

"  I  '11  heed  your  lesson,  dear  papa, 

And  treat  the  creature  kindly, 
And  look  on  him  — (as  he  on  us, 

It 's  likely)  —  not  so  blindly  ; 


266  SONGS    OF    THE    PERIOD. 

For  who  can  tell  but  that  in  turn, 
While  staring  from  his  bunk,  he 

Thinks  you  're  a  cynocephalus, 
And  I  'm  your  little  monkey  !  " 


THE    END. 


Cambridge  :   Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Billow   &  Co 

P  a 


